


dress me up (and watch me die)

by the-noble-idiot (noblegambit)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU-typical violence, Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Coup d'Etats, Emperor Lotor (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), Galtean Klance but just their nationalities, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gladiators, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lotor Is Bad At Talking, M/M, Mentions of Child Slavery, Murder, No Aliens, Nobility, Nobleman Lance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Political Alliances, Politics, broganes, gladiator Keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblegambit/pseuds/the-noble-idiot
Summary: Stolen from his home as a child, Keith knows nothing of life except how to take it.Raised in the boring world of nobility, Lance knows nothing of life except how to endure it.Born to different worlds, these two should never have met. But fate decreed they would.





	1. welcome to the end of eras

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! So this was the love child of my klance-worshipping gc on twitter, so thanks to all those lovely people who took this bean of an idea and turned it into something I actually was excited to write. I made this my Camp NaNoWriMo project for July 2019, and I'm publishing this now that the month is up. I managed to get six chapters done, so updates should be every weekend until I run out of chapters, and after that whenever I finish writing the next one.
> 
> Thanks to Dina for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> Title from Emperor's New Clothes by Panic! at the Disco. Rated M for gladiator-typical violence, maybe also for something... else... later... who knows ;)

Keith wakes to the sound of screaming and clanging metal.

These are not new sounds. Children and babies scream all the time, and he lives in a village full of black and silversmiths. These are the sounds Keith is growing up alongside, and sometimes the sounds he makes himself. It’s a little early for these sounds, however, judging by the darkness that still engulfs his family’s hut.

Something is burning. Perhaps his father left the fire going again, falling asleep at the anvil as he is wont to do.

“Father,” Keith mumbles, not yet opening his eyes. “The hearth...”

More screaming, more clanging. Horses braying, fire burning, men shouting. Sounds louder and louder until finally Keith sits up and opens his eyes, blinking to adjust.

His father is nowhere to be seen. The fire pit that sits in the center of their home lies dead, embers barely glowing in the burnt wood ashes, certainly not enough to be illuminating the house in flickering spots of red and orange. Keith coughs, only now noticing the smoke that curls through the walls and up into the rafters.

“Father?” Keith tries again, and is only met with more shouting and clanging from outside.

Keith throws off the deerskin blanket and slides his feet into his only pair of shoes, rubbing his stinging eyes as he pads to the front door and pushes it open.

This is not the screaming of happy children and the clanging of blacksmiths hard at work.

Keith stumbles backward with a cry just in time to avoid being trampled to death by an enormous horse, its rider brandishing a mace dripping in a suspicious red liquid. The rider’s face is masked by a strip of cloth over his mouth and nose, but his eyes burn with the reflecting light of the crackling fires that are engulfing Keith’s village, thick tendrils of smoke rising into the night sky and shrouding the stars from view. Keith knows behind that mask the rider is smiling wickedly.

The horse jumps forward, and the rider is gone. Keith stands slowly, wide eyes taking in the dozens of riders just like the other, all brandishing weapons of various sizes and shapes that drip with the same blood. Women scream for their children, men raise their swords against the night raiders as the fires roar around them. Keith watches in silent horror as people he knows are cut down one by one in front of him.

Mabel the fruit stall keeper used to give him free strawberries as thanks for helping her carry heavy baskets. Now she lies in a crumpled heap, face barely recognizable beneath the blood and dirt, her clothes shredded.

Jason the baker liked to ruffle his hair and laughed when Keith pouted at him. Now he gurgles, blood pouring from his mouth as a raider pulls a sword from his stomach.

Milo the butcher’s son, only a year younger than Keith, slung over a raider’s shoulder like a sack of radishes and crying as he’s carried away from his sobbing mother. Her cries cut off abruptly as another raider decides she’s making too much noise.

Somewhere in this madness is his father, Keith knows. A fear grips his chest, that perhaps his father is among the bodies strewn about like rag dolls. Keith’s body moves before he knows it, racing through the burning buildings and thundering hooves, hiding behind barrels and ducking quickly around corners to avoid being spotted by raiders. The putrid smoke stings his nose; normally he loves the smell of smoke, of a warm campfire and roasting rabbit. But this smoke is tainted with burnt human flesh, a scent Keith never wants to smell again. 

He checks every body he finds, swallowing down the bile that crawls up his throat as he wipes away blood and grime from motionless faces. None of them are his father. Keith doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Keith is running, now. He has checked every corner of the village and there is no sign of his father. Tears streak down his cheeks, cutting silver paths through the ash and grime that coats his face. He instinctively heads back to their shack, wanting to at least surround himself in something familiar before he, too, is cut down, or taken away like Milo.

He’s just about to make a break for it when strong hands wrap around him from behind, one hand over his mouth and nose and the other around his middle. Keith kicks and yells for help, the sounds muffled by the hand on his face. He manages to bring his teeth down on his captor’s finger, the man holding him cries out in pain, removing his hand from Keith’s face. Keith gasps for air, readying up for another kick when his captor speaks.

“You’ve still got some fight in you, son. That’s good.”

Keith knows that voice.

“ _ Father?” _

Akira looks weary, his face blood streaked from a cut on his temple and hair caked to his forehead, but he’s his father. “Keith,” he says, voice deep and soothing despite the panic and mayhem, and Keith has never felt like crying more. He buries his face in his father’s chest, not resisting when Akira picks him up and carries him the rest of the way to the shack they share.

The smoke is thick in the house, but there is no time to cough. Akira puts Keith down on the bed and lets go of his blood-slick sword, the weapon falling with a thud against the wooden floorboards. Akira drops to his knees next to his own bed on the other side of the single room. Keith watches with short breath as Akira pulls a chest from beneath the bed, taking the key from around his neck and unlocking it.

Keith was never allowed to touch that chest. It contained the last of the mementos left behind by Keith’s mother before she disappeared. Akira always told Keith that he would show him what is inside the chest when he was ready, so seeing the chest now has a dark feeling sinking into Keith’s gut.

His father pulls only a single object wrapped in linens. He holds it tightly to his chest before kneeling in front of the bed Keith was sitting on. “This was your mother’s,” he says, curling his son’s fingers around the object. It feels heavy in Keith’s small hands. “It’s all there is left of her. Protect it. Perhaps one day you can return it to her.”

Keith is crying again.

“Keith,” Akira says gently but urgently, tucking a strand of black hair behind his son’s ear. “Can you do something for me?”

Keith nods past the lump in his throat.

“I need you to run,” Akira says. His hands tighten around Keith’s. “Run away from this place. It’s not safe for you here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“These men…” Akira swallows. “They’ve come to take us all away. I don’t want them to take you so you have to promise me that you’ll run and never look back.”

“No!” Keith cries, leaning forward to bury his face into his father’s shoulder. “I want to stay here with you!”

Akira’s shoulders shake with tears of his own, the drops dampening the back of Keith’s shirt as he wraps his son in a strong hug. “I know,” he says. “But there is no time.”

As he speaks, the shouting outside draws closer, firelight bleeding into the room as raiders crowd outside the door. Akira’s face hardens. He draws away from Keith, picking up his sword as he goes to stand in front of the door. Keith’s breaths grow shorter, his eyes sting, and he wants nothing more than to go back to sleep.

“Keith, run.”

The front door breaks, and three raiders are in the living room.

“RUN!”

Keith runs.

He tucks his mother’s possession in his belt and bolts for the kitchen, with the back door that leads to the forest where Keith often went hunting for raccoons and other small critters. He knows those trees like the back of his hand, knows all the hiding places and hidden paths. If Keith can make it to the woods then he’ll be safe.

There is no one blocking the back door when Keith bursts through it. Swords clash and his father shouts a curse, but Keith doesn’t look back. He takes off for the woods, the fires behind him casting the trees in eerie light, the darkness between the trunks yawning menacingly. Keith keeps running.

Something explodes. Keith skids to a halt, turning back against his better instinct.

His house burns. Thick tendrils of smoke darken the sky even further, illuminated only by the huge flames that eat his home from the inside out. The raiders, reduced in number, Keith is proud to see, stand outside with their torches and laughing with one another as they watch the fire. The raider who had first entered their house is mounted on a horse, his clothing more decorated than the rest of the men.

He must be the leader, Keith decides, and burns his face into his memory. The wild hair, the square jaw, his single cold and unfeeling eye. He watches the house burn with an evil sort of smile, his exterior cool and collected even as he basks in the heat of burning memories.

There is no sign of Keith’s father.

The smoke stings his eyes, and Keith is crying again.

He hiccups, and accidentally catches the attention of the leader. They make eye contact across the field, the man’s eye narrowed and cruel. 

Keith pivots and keeps running for the trees.

“Find the boy!” Pounding feet and shouting as the raiders take off after him.

Keith keeps running.

He runs until he can’t hear his pursuers anymore. He finds an overturned tree, breaking the smaller branches apart until there’s a clear spot big enough for a nine year old to lay down in. The sun has yet to peak over the horizon; Keith has no idea what time it is or if his father is even still alive, but he’ll be of no use to anyone, exhausted as he is. He lays down in the makeshift clearing, head pillowed in damp and decaying leaves, and ignores the smell as he tries to catch his breath. A few more tears slide down his cheeks as he wraps his arms around himself, already missing the warmth of his father’s hug.

He can still feel the object Akira had given him digging into his side. With a few moments to rest, he pulls it from his belt and unwraps the cloth.

It’s a knife. A small thing, no longer than his forearm. The cloth looks old, so perhaps Keith was expecting the blade to be dulled with age, but a quick test proves that no, the blade is still very sharp. Keith sucks on his bleeding finger as he inspects the hilt. A purple so dark it looks black, the place where the blade meets the hilt wrapped in yet another, thinner cloth, perhaps for grip. 

Keith unwraps the thinner cloth, squinting his eyes through the darkness to make out a small symbol etched into the base of the blade. It looks something like a lightning bolt, but it means nothing to Keith, so he rewraps it.

The knife is heavy, but nothing a bit of training and growing up can’t fix. Marmorans are tribes of blacksmiths, after all. His tenth birthday would have been a right of passage, learning to forge his first blade and take his place in the tribe. It was only a few months away, but with the destruction of his village also went the culture and values of its people. For all Keith knows, he is the last of his village.

Keith rewraps the knife in its linens and slides it into his belt. It’s all he has left of his family now.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until the ground beneath him shakes him awake. He blinks away the morning sun, wondering why the sky is so bright if there is thunder in the distance. Then he wonders what he’s doing sleeping in the woods, until a harsh reminder comes in the form of someone wrapping their hand around his ankle and yanking him out from under the makeshift tent.

Keith goes kicking and screaming, getting dirt in his mouth and eyes as his body is dragged through the earth. His captor easily picks him up and crushes Keith’s arms to his sides. A glance around reveals he had been surrounded sometime in the night, the same raiders as before somehow looking more menacing now that he can actually see them.

Keith is still fighting, even as they toss him into a caged wagon pulled by donkeys. He’s not alone; Milo, James, and a few of the other children from the village are there as well, chained to each other and sniffling quietly. He is locked into shackles with the rest of the children, glaring with tears in his eyes at the lead raider, who sits on his stupid horse with that stupid look on his face, not seeming to care that he just wiped out an entire village.

“Good haul,” he says, and Keith memorizes the sound of his voice, too. “Where’s the nearest port town.”

“Capital of the Marmora territory, Slavan,” says a raider.

_ Ah _ , Keith thinks.  _ They’re Galran. _

“Then we make for Slavan,” the leader says, and turns his horse away.

The wagon lurches, and Keith can only watch in burning silence as they exit the forest, making for the road. He doesn’t know if it’s purposeful or not, but they pass the charred remains of his village on the way. The scent of death hangs heavy in the air. Many of the other children start crying again. Keith doesn’t look, instead presses a hand to the knife still hidden in his belt to steady himself. He’s already shed enough tears.

Slavan is a week’s journey by horseback. Keith spends the days doing his best to console the other children; he’s the second oldest among the captured kids, and takes it upon himself to be strong for the youngest ones. When night falls and everyone is asleep, Keith takes out his knife and runs his thumb along the blade, imagining running it through the one-eyed man’s stomach.

Slavan is a bustling port city built on an inlet jutting into the sea. Ships line up in rows, their gangplanks crowded with sailors loading or unloading stock. Merchants call out their wares, women hold their children close, and bucktoothed men gamble in the shadows. Keith had been to Slavan once before with his father, for a gathering of swordsmiths from around Marmora to exchange metals, techniques, and chit chat. Keith remembers feeling awed by the sheer vastness of the city, all the nooks and crannies to explore. Now, he thinks bitterly, it’s more like an elaborate prison.

The captives are taken to a secluded section of the city, where the buildings are built low and unassuming. Two days are spent in cells with other children taken from other villages, some even from the neighboring countries of Altea and Arus. Keith keeps to himself, tucking himself into a corner and planning all the different ways to stab the one-eyed man that stole his life.

Sometimes men and women come down to the cells to look at the children. The ones they like are taken away, and Keith never sees them again. Milo is one of the first to go, crying silently as silver coins are passed from hand to hand over his head.

Keith keeps his face cold and turned away, glaring daggers and resisting when people try to take him away until they decide he’s not worth the effort and pick a different child instead. A small part of Keith wants to stop resisting like the rest of the children have, just resign himself to his fate and hope that whichever adult takes him away is a benevolent one. But his father always told him he was so much like his mother, a fighter, a survivor. Giving up is not in his blood.

Only a half-dozen children remain by the time someone decides Keith is worth the trouble. A weasley man is led down to the cells, his features sharp and rat-like. Keith instantly dislikes him.

"One of my body boys got trampled in the last round of games,” he tells the one-eyed man. “Need a kid that’s not afraid of a little blood.”

The one-eyed man’s eye zeroes in on Keith, and Keith meets his gaze with a fire of his own.  _ Remember,  _ he thinks,  _ This is the face of the man you need to kill one day. _

“I know just the one.”


	2. picked a fight with the gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15 Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the response in the last chapter! We've arrived at the actual gladiator-ing so mind the tags!
> 
> Chapter title from "Gladiator" by Zayde Wølf

When Keith closes his eyes, he imagines himself back in his village.

The dirt roads. The surrounding forest. The stables with all the horses and the sheep with their scratchy wool. Chasing squirrels and swimming in the river. Coming home soaking wet and covered in mud, pretending to be upset when his father scolded him. Roasting rabbit over a fire and getting the juices down his front. Laying on the roof with his father and staring up at the heavens while Akira tells stories about the gods, pointing out their likenesses in the stars.

These happy scenes roll back through his mind, drowning out the shouting of the rabid crowd just beyond the iron gate.

His father tucking him into bed, kissing his forehead and humming off key until Keith fell asleep. Fire burning, blood staining the earth, and the laugh of the one-eyed man as Keith’s home explodes in a burning fireball of heat and death.

Keith opens his eyes, adjusts his grip on the sword in his hand, and rolls his head from side to side to loosen the muscles in his neck. His leather armor creaks as he adjusts, the familiar fall of it on his chest and shoulders a small comfort. The tunnel in which his stands is dark and damp as usual, even more so due to the rain outside. But rain never stopped anyone in this city.

The crowd lets up a roar, and Keith knows that it’s his turn soon. His expression falls into one of practiced indifference. He’s here to put on a show, but he will not give the audience an excuse to feed off his own enjoyment.

All too soon, the iron gate in front of him rises, and Keith is being shoved forward into the mud-slick arena. The space is small and cramped, barely large enough for ten men to stand shoulder to shoulder, lined on all sides with sharp spikes pointing inward, some of them already skewered with the latest batch of poorly trained fighters. The victor paces the far side of the arena, breathing heavily underneath his armor. His helmet obscures most of his face, but that’s fine by Keith. It’s easier to kill a faceless man.

The crowd chants as he comes into view.  _ “Red! Red! Red!” _

Keith ignores them, casting his eyes up instead to the tented platform where the games’ officiator and special guests sit. His eyes pass over their faces one by one, many of them regulars lounging on cushions and popping grapes into their mouths like they’re not watching men die for no reason but entertainment.

The Slavemaster, a man known as Reevus, is of course also in attendance, though curiously he is accompanied by a newcomer. The man is tall and rectangular, with high cheekbones and the sharp cut of his jaw hidden beneath sideburns. His hair is a dark black streaked with grey, styled curiously so it appears that two horns stick out from either side of his head. It’s hard to tell in the overcast light, but his skin seems to be several shades darker than the rest of the Slavans gathered to watch the games. He must not be from around here.

The guest leans to say something to Reevus that is lost in the din of the rain, meeting Keith’s eyes with a curious tick of an eyebrow. Keith narrows his eyes in silent defiance before turning his attention back to his helmeted opponent.

In the silence before the horn blows, the two men circle each other, looking for openings and weaknesses. Keith takes in the other man’s bloodied sword, the rain doing little to wash it clean. He eyes the armor, looking for weaknesses. He notes the cut on the other man’s thigh, the limp barely noticeable.

_ How unfortunate,  _ Keith thinks. _ Pitting a battle-weary man against a fresh fighter. _

The horn blows, signaling the start of the battle.

The other man doesn’t waste time, yelling a cry and charging with his sword raised high. Keith sees an opening to end this right here and now but it's his job to at least put on a good show. He side steps, avoiding the initial blow and blocking the followup attack. The clang of sword against sword echoes even above the cheering crowd.

_ “Red! Red! Red!” _

The second man comes again. Keith parries, going in for a jab of his own. He successfully manages to draw first blood, his opponent crying out and holding a hand to his side. A cut, not deep enough to hinder movement but all the same it would slow the man down. In this world, slow means dead.

Indeed, the fight does not last long after first blood. The other man’s movements become slower and slower, his body weighed down by exhaustion and blood loss. More well-placed slashes to his arms and chest, and the man goes to his knees, sword falling into the mud with a wet squelch. The crowd roars even louder, their favorite part of the show quickly approaching.

The man on the ground knows his fate now. “Make it fast,” he breathes, voice low so only Keith can hear. “So that I may die with honor.”

Keith grits his teeth and says nothing, taking his usual place behind the kneeling man and readjusting his sword in his grip. His eyes move upward to the tented platform, where Reevus is moving into place. He waits dramatically for a few moments before thrusting his closed fist into the rain. The crowd roars.

_ “Down! Down! Down!” _

The dark-haired man is leaning forward in his chair, eyes on Keith like he’s discovered the plumpest chicken of the coop, already imagining plucking and spicing him before laying him out to be devoured. Keith does not like the look on the man’s face at all.

Reevus waits a few moments longer before he acquiesces, flipping his fist into a firm thumbs down. 

The crowd roars again, feet pounding on the wooden bleachers and waving their own thumbs down wildly.

“Go with honor, for you have fought bravely,” Keith recites, positioning the tip of his sword above the man’s back. He counts to three, breathes in, and thrusts. Keith is long past feeling sick at the sound of sword sliding against bone, but he still closes his eyes to block out the sight of blood mixing with sand and rainwater.

The body beneath his sword goes limp and heavy. Keith retracts the blade, and the body slumps to the ground. The body boys -- Keith’s old job, he remembers bitterly -- rush into the arena, looping their arms around the dead man’s legs and dragging him from the arena. His helmet slides off in the process, but Keith doesn’t look.

“Excellent!” Reevus cheers with the rest of the crowd. “Good show, good show! Exactly what we would expect from our very own Red Lion!”

Keith wipes his blade on the hem of his tunic and without a second glance to the stands, makes his way back through the gate from which he had entered. Reevus is shouting something else, but it is nothing for Keith to hear. The iron gate closes behind him once again with an ominous clang.

Immediately Keith is swarmed by slavers. It’s a routine Keith is well acquainted with: disarmed, ankles chained, then doused in water to wash away the remnants of blood and mud. A plate of meat stew is shoved into his hands, and finally he is led back to the barracks until it’s time for training the next morning.

Keith settles onto his cot, finding the most comfortable spot on the bed of wood and straw to lay back on. He gnaws a bite of meat into his mouth, wiping away the juices that trickle down his chin. As he chews, he picks up a rock from where it sits in its crack in the wall and scratches it against the stone between bites of his dinner.

_ Krrrk. Krrrk. Krrrk. _

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Up and down, until another tally mark is added to the collection. Another tally for another body.

Keith has just finished putting the final touches on his newest tally when the iron doors to the barracks screech open. It’s not unusual for Reevus to come down to see his gladiators after a full day of games, so Keith refocuses his attention on his dinner. He barely registers the group of men standing outside his cell door until someone raps a cane sharply against the bars, the sound echoing loudly throughout the barracks.

Keith looks up. It’s Reevus, definitely, but he’s accompanied by the bearded man from before. Now that Keith isn’t blinking rainwater out of his eyes, he can better take in the expensive looking robes and choice armor plating across his chest and shoulders in the dark black and purples of the Galran Empire. Keith’s blood burns beneath his skin.

“This is the Red Lion?” the man says, tone carefully neutral, his eyes slowly scanning the gladiator with a careful eye.

“Pride and joy of Slavan,” Reevus says proudly.

“Why do you call him ‘Red Lion?’

“He’s our most fierce fighter, so named for the way he bloodies his opponents the way a lion bloodies its next meal. Picked him up from some slavers from the provinces almost fifteen years ago, and it’s one of the best investments I’ve made. Save the best for last, I always say.”

“Marmoran?”

“According to the man I bought him from.”

“Fascinating,” the man says, and Keith does not like the tone in his voice at all, nor the way Reevus talks about him like he is a prize bull at an auction. The man directly addresses Keith next, “What is your name, gladiator?”

Keith swallows the rest of his dinner before answering. Setting aside the empty plate, Keith stands from his cot and approaches the bars, leaning his arms against the horizontal rung and staring the silver man in the eye.

“What does it matter,” he says bitterly. “It’s easier to kill a nameless man.”

“I don’t mean to kill you.”

“You don’t?” Keith growls, his eyes falling to the Galran crest that adorns the silver man’s breastplate. “Your people killed mine fifteen years ago. Maybe it won’t be you, but I am doomed to die here at the hands of a Galra, so I will blame you all the same.”

Reevus raps his cane against the bars again, his face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. “You will shut your mouth, slave,” he screeches. “You know not to whom you speak!”

The man raises a hand, and Reevus goes silent, though he still fumes quietly to himself. Keith continues glaring, taking in the slight pinch of the bearded man’s eyebrows, the clenching of his free hand as evidence that perhaps he had struck some kind of nerve.

“I like this one,” the man says with a calculating smile, all signs of his supposed anger gone. “I’m glad I was able to meet you _.  _ I do hope that you and I will meet again.”

“As do I,” Keith replies. “So that I may kill you before you kill me.”

The man quirks a smile but says no more, sweeping his robes as he turns back toward the exit. Reevus glares at Keith, hisses, “We will have  _ words  _ later,” and then follows. Keith waits until he hears the iron gate to the gladiator barracks clang shut before turning away from the bars to return to his cot.

“You need to stop antagonizing Reevus,” one of the other gladiators says lowly from his own cot. Keith doesn’t know his name, only that he’s from the Southern provinces. “It’s going to get you killed.”

“I’m going to die here anyway,” Keith grumbles, laying back and pillowing his head in the crook of his arm.

“You’ve gotten worse ever since they took the Champion away.”

Keith glares at the mention of Shiro. “He’s alive, I know he is.”

“Quit deluding yourself.” The other gladiator rolls his eyes. “If you’re taken away, you’re never seen again. Everyone knows that.”

Keith really, really wants to punch this guy for daring to imply Shiro is dead, consequences be damned, but he’s too tired from the day’s fight to initiate anything. He turns his back to the other gladiator, glaring instead at the scratched tally marks by his bed. “He has to be alive,” Keith murmurs to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching a handful of straw in his hand to reign in his temper, the way Shiro taught him to.

_ Patience yields focus. _

“Because if he’s not, I don’t have much else to live for.”

* * *

The following day is a hot one, the rainclouds from yesterday finally emptying themselves and leaving the sky a bright blue. There are no games today, and training grounds are open for use, so if someone happened to be looking for the Red Lion, that is the first place to look.

It is there that Reevus finds his Red Lion, armed with a wooden sword and going toe to toe with another one of the veteran gladiators. A spear versus a sword is, in theory, not a good match. A spear has a longer reach, forcing the opponent with a shorter weapon to keep their distance.

Whoever decided that theory had not met the Red Lion.

He ducks under the spear-wielder’s guard again and again, jabbing at the chinks in his armor before he can wrestle the spear into a blocking position. Duck, jab, and avoid the counterattack. Over and over again the Red Lion dances around his opponent, his face a mask of concentration and carefully controlled anger.

“Red,” Reevus called, and Keith jumps away from what might have been a fatal jab of the spear, had it been a real spear in a real fight. The two gladiators nod to one another before separating, the spear-wielder to find a new opponent to train with and Keith to Slavemaster Reevus.

“What,” he says.

“You made a good impression on Slavemaster Thace yesterday,” Reevus tells him. Keith immediately thinks of the bearded man from last night. “He’s decided to take you with him back to Daibazaal.”

Keith blinks.

“To be brought to Daibazaal is a great honor!” Reevus continues. “To fight and die in the Great Arena of the Galra Empire is the highest honor for a gladiator!”

“I’m not going,” Keith finally says, cutting off whatever speech Reevus had planned. The idea of being brought directly into the heart of Galra country, surrounded by the evil creatures that murdered his whole village for a measly few dozen child slaves, sits like a poisonous stone in Keith’s stomach.

“The deal has already been struck, slave,” Reevus retorts. “You will do as you are told, or face the consequences. Now go back to your barracks and clean yourself to be presented to Slavemaster Thace. That is an order.”

Keith curls his lip but knows better than to argue. He is, as Reevus said, a slave, after all.

Keith is escorted back to the barracks by one of the guards, where he is scrubbed clean of sweat and dirt before being redressed in his gladiator armor rather than the typical training tunic he prefers. There’s still some time left before he is to formally meet his new master, so he takes the time to dig out the loose stone beneath his cot. Buried there is the knife his father gave him before he died, as well as a few trinkets Shiro had given him before he disappeared.

He conceals the knife in his boot, breathing easier now that he can feel the familiar shape against his skin.

Reevus comes for him twenty minutes later, and Keith is escorted out of the barracks for the last time. He follows silently as Reevus lists Slavemaster Thace’s accomplishments in great detail, not really caring one way or the other. They leave the gladiator district altogether, Reevus riding in a palanquin and Keith walking beside him, ankle and wrist shackles clanging noisily and drawing the attention of streetfolk.

_ It’s the Red Lion,  _ people whisper. Keith glares at them, and their jaws snap shut.

Keith is taken to a large mansion just outside of the main city. Bright green bushes line the dirt path leading up to a pearly gate, through which Keith can see a house bigger than any one person actually needs. It’s architecture looks vaguely Galran, most likely to appease its guest, but Keith can still pick out traditional Marmoran detailing as they draw closer.

The bearded man, Slavemaster Thace, is waiting in the gardens. He’s dressed more simply, foregoing his armor for simpler nobleman’s clothes, though still in the purples and blacks that makes Keith’s blood boil.

Someone kicks the back of Keith’s knees, and he tumbles to his knees with a short grunt.

“So nice to see you again, Red Lion,” his new master says airily. “You may not tell me your name but I shall tell you mine: I am Thace of Daibazaal, Slavemaster and Officiator of the Galran Gladiator Games. I watched your performance, and after speaking with you and Slavemaster Reevus, I have decided you would be a wonderful addition to my ranks.”

Reevus wrings his hands together, bowing low as he approaches Thace of Daibazaal. “My good sir,” he says, “and in return?”

Thace waves his hand, and a few servants step forward, opening twin chests filled with gold. “One chest for the slave, and one for replacing him,” Thace says, eyeing Keith up and down like he’s some prize bull up for slaughter. “And of course an endorsement at the Coliseum. Presenting the Red Lion of the Slavan Games.”

Reevus preens at the endorsement. He casts one final glance down at Keith, who has never felt more like an object than he does now. “What do you say to your new master?”

Keith redirects his glare into the bushes, but recites the gladiator’s oath all the same, the words poison on his tongue.

“I serve my master and not myself. I fight for honor. I die for the glory of Galra.”

Reevus nods, satisfied. He drops a low bow to Slavemaster Thace before taking his leave. Thace watches him go with an odd expression and sips the wine delicately. “Sleep well tonight, Red Lion. It’s a long way to Daibazaal.”


	3. acting on your best behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance arrives in Daibazaal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who has stuck around! This week we finally meet Lance! I almost forgot to upload this this weekend, but I'm glad I remembered!
> 
> Chapter title from "Everybody wants to rule the world" by Lorde (originally by Tears for Fears)

“Why am I the one doing this again?”

“Uh, because the Queen said so?”

“Just because the Queen is my cousin doesn’t mean I--”

“Well, yeah, it kind of does, actually.”

Lance groans dramatically, knowing the battle is already lost, considering he's already over halfway to their destination. “Why did they request me to come, anyway? Wouldn’t someone like Duchess Ryner be more suitable to this sort of negotiation?”

Kinkade shrugs, the reins in his hand jostling loudly with the movement and making his horse shake its head in annoyance. “Maybe they heard about your work on the Arusian border? Remember the incident with the Apology Dance?”

Lance can’t help but snort out a laugh at the memory. “Of course I remember. I just don’t see how that reflects on my ability to negotiate a  _ trade agreement  _ with the country who we’re barely maintaining a ceasefire with. We’d been at war with the Galran Empire for a hundred years, Uncle Alfor negotiates a ceasefire, and then suddenly fifty years later they want to open up trade routes like we’re the greatest of friends, when up until now the only contact we’ve had with them are border skirmishes that the Galran government claims have nothing to do with them. Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you?”

Kinkade shrugs again. “Politics isn’t really my areas of expertise,” he says. “If you ask me, I’d say any opportunity to facilitate peace with the Empire is an opportunity worth taking, especially if they’re the ones who reached out first.”

“I agree,” Lance says, “but having positive relations with a country that has legal slave trade and watches people fight to the death for entertainment? It doesn’t sit well with me.”

Kinkade, not the best conversationalist, says nothing.

Lance sighs and leans back into his seat, watching the landscape pass by outside the carriage window. The Empire is indeed known for its gladiators, a profession outlawed in Altea for thousands of years. But Altea has other ways to bolster its economy; fertile soil to grow crops, fine linens, and a wealth of gems to export. Galran land is notoriously difficult to farm, so it had to turn to metal mining and weapon forging to support its economy. But in years of peace, and no warring country to export weapons, there was little choice but to convince the populace that fighting and dying for honor was sporty and worth paying an exorbitant amount of money to see.

Lance personally detests the idea, and hopes that he will not be made to watch a match during his time here.

The scenery is pretty, though. Rocky, barren mountains that glow red in the sun, a few spiraling rivers with villages dotting the banks every couple miles. So unlike the vast fields of Altea, with the blooming flowers and lush Arusian mountains in the far distance. It’s incredibly hot, here in Galra country, and Lance is sweltering beneath the layers of clothing suitable for an Altean diplomat.

“How much longer until we reach Daibazaal?” Lance asks.

“Any moment now you’ll be able to see the palace,” Kinkade says, leaning over the neck of his horse and tilting his head as if that will allow him to see it past the next curve. “Apparently it’s the oldest building in the Empire.”

Lance braces his hands on the window frame and thrusts his upper body through the window, squinting against the midday sun for the first glimpse of the palace. His diplomatic caravan stretches a short ways ahead, carrying gifts for the royal family and other various pieces of luggage, flanked on either side by armed soldiers. The path before them continues around a corner, behind which Lance hopes is the Galran capital. He’s not sure how much longer he can stand being cooped up in this stupid carriage.

Pidge isn’t even here to keep him company. She and Hunk will be meeting him in Daibazaal. It was faster for her to travel by sea, but Lance’s home is quicker by land, funnily enough. Pidge would still reach the capital before him.

Lance is just about to slide back into his carriage, resigning himself to more hours of boredom, when he spots another caravan, this one less laden with expense and looking more like a traveling merchant stall. Pack mules, small wagons loaded with boxes, and men chained in a line like…

Lance’s caravan catches up to the merchant quickly. The merchants shout for their party to move off the road to let Lance pass. The chained men, all dressed similarly in mud-splattered leather armor or traveling tunics, keep their heads bowed and eyes averted as Lance passes.  _ Slaves _ , Lance thinks, before clocking their armor and changing his mind to  _ gladiators. _

“On their way to the arena, I imagine,” Kinkade murmurs as they pass, apparently having come to the same conclusion as Lance. “Poor bastards.”

“Poor bastards, indeed,” Lance says to himself.

One of the gladiators doesn’t let his head hang low. He’s near the front of the procession, flanked by a whip-bearing slaver and looking like he’d met the business end of that whip a few times already. He keeps his head high, though, mouth pressed into a grim line and fists clenched in his shackles like a man doing his best to convince himself not to lash out.

The man turns his head as Lance’s carriage rolls past, and Lance swears time slows for a heartbeat as the man’s eyes meet his. His face is young but hardened, unmarred but for what looks like a massive burn scar across his cheek. His eyes are dark, shadowed by thick brows and a mop of sweat-slick black hair that falls across his forehead and down the back of his neck.

This man is different, Lance catches himself thinking. He doesn’t duck his head in a show of subservience, he doesn’t avert his eyes to convey respect. He stares at Lance like he’s challenging him to a fight, and it’s a look Lance has never seen even on his own soldiers’ faces. The face of a man whose pride remains higher than his status.

The moment is broken when the slaver snaps the whip dangerously close to the man’s ear. Lance winces instinctively, flinching away from the sharp sound. When he looks again, his carriage is far ahead of the other caravan, and he can’t see the face of the black haired gladiator anymore.

Lance slides back into his carriage, replaying the moment over and over in his head and wondering why it even happened in the first place.

They finally arrive in the capital city. The streets are narrow, with barely enough room for Lance’s carriage to pass through. Citizens bustle in crowds, shouting at each other as they haggle down various wares. Buildings tower high above their heads; with such narrow streets, the Galrans build up rather than out, it seems. The capital city is perched on a cliffside; as they near the palace, Lance and his party can make out the distant sea across which is Olkarion, where Pidge’s family lives.

Because the Galran Empire is proposing a trade route from Altea through the Empire and to Olkarion, all three countries are sending representatives for a summit to be held over the next month for negotiations. Lance can already see the Olkarion ship moored in the port as his party exits the city and begins the ascent to the main palace.

Lance is greeted by the gate by the recently crowned ruler himself, Emperor Lotor. Lance had meet him briefly as a child, when his mother, an Altean woman too far down the line of succession to ever be queen, would bring him to the palace for a visit. Now both of them have grown into fine young men of status, though Lotor far out-ranks Lance. He has grown tall and pointy, his long silver hair, mark of Altean royalty, is woven into an elegant braid that hangs far past his shoulders, crown of black iron standing out starkly against the silver. His skin, a shade darker than Lance’s own, glows bronze in the light of the sun. He wears the King’s Armor, blacks and purples and hints of red that seem to sparkle like fire when the light hits it just so.

“ _Klishñik,_ Your Grace,” Emperor Lotor greets briefly in Altean before switching to common tongue elegantly once Lance steps out of his carriage, sweeping his cape in an elegant bow. “I’m so glad Queen Allura accepted my invitation.”

“ _Vrepit Sa._ The Queen is busy, and is sorry she cannot be here in person,” Lance responds, also in common tongue, bending into a bow of his own. He neglects to inform Lotor that his cousin has her doubts regarding the sanctity of these negotiations, and thus sent Lance in her stead to decide whether the proposal is worth pursuing personally. That information is on a need-to-know basis.

“What a shame; I was hoping to be graced by her presence,” the Emperor says, and Lance cannot even begin to decipher the layers upon layers of meaning that like within that short sentence so he doesn’t even try.

“If negotiations go well, perhaps she will join us,” Lance says, and there’s a glint in Lotor’s eye as he smiles.

“In that case, allow me to make a good first impression.” He gestures behind him where the enormous doors leading inside the palace stand open and waiting. “Please, come, get settled. I hear that Your Grace and the Olkarion representative are old friends, I’m sure you would like to be reacquainted with her before dinner.”

“That would be lovely.”

Servants pour out of the castle to begin picking apart Lance’s caravan. Gifts are unpackaged, the horses lead away to be fed and watered, and the knights escorted to the guest barracks. Kinkade hands the reins to his horse to the stablehands and assumes his position a few paces behind Lance as he allows the Emperor to escort them inside.

The inside of the Galran palace is far more dimly lit than the palace in Altea. The front gate leads into a large vestibule, the floors meticulously tiled in colors of black and purple, while above the ceiling is adorned in faintly glowing chandeliers that illuminate the carved ebony wolves that run in packs through trees of obsidian. Windows high above their heads let in the natural light to illuminate the tapestries that hang intermittently on either side of the vast room. Lance glances at them as they pass; the tapestries depict the former Emperor, Lord Zarkon, in his conquest of what are now the Galran territories of Marmora and Pollux.

Lance read up on those crusades as part of his studies to become a diplomat. Supposed uprisings and secret agendas, villages wiped off the map and any survivors forced to assimilate to Galran culture and language until they were considered Galran but bore no rights as a true born citizen. The scales were tipped against them, but no one in the government seemed to think it was a problem.

Lance stares at Lotor’s back, only somewhat listening as the new Emperor, only a few short years into his reign after his father’s passing, describes his plans for this summit, including some kind of welcome banquet. Perhaps, Lance thinks, Emperor Lotor may be persuaded, as part of these negotiations, to do something about them.

Lotor leads Lance and Kinkade into what looks like a lounge, richly furnished with lounge couches, tables laden with fruit and wine, and ceiling high windows that overlook a massive garden. It’s not the garden that captures Lance’s attention, however, but the figure sitting on one of the couches, eagerly popping grapes into her mouth.

“How about you leave some of those for the birds?” Lance laughs as Pidge whips around at the sound of his voice, her expression brightening significantly.

“Lance!”

Lance quickly finds himself with an armful of teenager, wrapping his arms around Pidge’s back in a strong hug. “Hey, Pidgey, long time no see!”

“Four years, to be exact,” Pidge informs him, stepping back so they can admire each other. In the (apparently) four years since they had seen each other, Pidge had definitely grown into herself. Her hair remains short, styled neatly over her ears and forehead. She is dressed in the Olkarion fineries, long white and red hooded tunic that fell to her knees, and a cloak of forest green wrapped across her torso and shoulders.

“Did you get shorter?” Lance jokes, running his hand from the top of his head to hers just to double check. “Or maybe you haven’t grown at all?”

Pidge elbows Lance in the gut in retaliation, giggling at Lance’s pained wheeze. “Still at the perfect height to do that, I see,” she laughs, and continues past Lance to introduce herself to Kinkade, who had only been in Lance’s guard for two years and thus would not have met Lance’s childhood friend yet.

Pidge’s own personal guard, a large man nicknamed Hunk, also stands from where he was sitting on the lounges, a large smile stretching across his kind face.

“Lance!”

“Hunk, my good man!”

Hunk pulls his childhood friend into a smothering hug, but of course Lance wouldn’t have it any other way. “How have you been doing?” the larger man asks once they finally separate. “I haven’t seen you since the Balmeran Mining treaty.”

“Things have been a little hectic,” Lance smiles back, “but I’m glad to finally see you, my friend!” Lance gestures behind him. “And I brought Kinkade with me!”

Hunk follows Lance’s gesture to where the dark-skinned guard is chatting with Pidge, a small but intrigued smile pulling at his lips. Hunk’s already dark skin grows even darker at the cheeks as he takes in Kinkade’s muscled figure, highlighted in the right places thanks to the uniform of the Altean royal guard. “You weren’t kidding in your letters,” Hunk mumbles. “He’s really, uh…”

“Strong?” Lance smirks.

“Uh, ahem, yes, quite. Strong.”

“Strong indeed,” Emperor Lotor says, and Lance jumps, having completely forgotten that the young Emperor was still with them. “If he wasn’t the only one accompanying you on this journey I might have offered you a price for him, to see him fight for his honor in our Gladiator games!”

The silence that follows is stifling. Kinkade does his best to keep his face carefully neutral, but Lance likes to think that they’ve been working together for so long that he can pick up when the other man is uncomfortable, and judging by the clench of his jaw, he is, in fact, quite so. Lance takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fist and only mildly wishing he had his bow in his hands for stability.

_ Don’t cause any international incidents,  _ Allura had told him, and really, what does she take Lance for? The kind of person to admonish a superior — an Emperor, no less — because he wants to buy a knight that he doesn’t even have the right to even  _ consider  _ buying because slavery is outlawed in Altea and Kinkade is an Altean citizen?

Lance absolutely is that kind of person, but he really needs this negotiation to go well so he bites his tongue.

“That’s kind of you,” Lance says through an absolutely fake smile, biting back what he really wants to say. The things he does for diplomacy. “but Kinkade has proved his honor already by being knighted by our Queen, and I fear his head will burst if he earns any more.”

Lotor’s eyes flick between Kinkade and Lance as if he isn’t sure to take Lance’s response as a compliment or insult. Pidge, from behind Lotor’s back, is hiding a smirk behind her hands, and Kinkade unclenches his jaw. That’s a win for Lance.

“I heard there was to be a banquet,” Lance continues as if nothing were wrong. “I’ve always wanted to try Galran food.”

“Ah, yes, there will be a banquet,” Lotor recovers, pulling himself back to full height. “Now that all the representatives are present, I have a series of events planned to welcome you both here to the new Galra Empire.” The mood grows solemn as Lotor bows his head slightly. “My father’s reign has cast a dark shadow across our lands; it is my hope that the implementation of this trade treaty will take the first steps toward fostering a new era of peace between our countries that is not bound by a delicate ceasefire.”

“That is a lofty goal,” Pidge says, leaving Kinkade’s side to join the other two representatives in a small semicircle. “How do you plan to achieve it?”

“That can be discussed over dinner,” Lotor says. “Tonight, it is a simple meal with only those of us in this room. The banquet, as Lord Lance has expressed much interest in, will follow an event that I and my Court hope satisfies your taste for Galran culture; after all, we shall be soon importing and exporting this culture between us.”

“What kind of event?” Lance asks, already getting a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Lotor tips his head in the direction of one of the windows. The two ambassadors follow the Emperor to look outside, where in the near distance stands an enormous ovular structure, several stories high with tall spires reaching into the clouds and casting shadows into the roofless area below. Guards mill about on the ground, and if Lance squints hard enough, he can make out a group of figures being led single file through a separate gate and down into the basement.

“That must be…” Pidge begins.

“The pride and joy of Daibazaal,” Lotor says proudly. “My grandfather built this gladiator arena at the peak of his reign, and it stands as a monument to the glory of soldiers who lay down their lives for their country.” He looks over at Lance and Pidge, both of whom cannot take their eyes off the coliseum. “It would be a great honor if you would allow the citizens of Daibazaal to show you what it means to die for glory.”

Politically, Lance cannot refuse Emperor Lotor’s offer. To do so would be a grave insult, and would risk the relationship between Altea and the Empire during a summit which hasn’t even technically begun yet. On the other hand, Lance wants nothing to do with the gladiator games, and he can tell by the way Pidge stiffens slightly beside him that neither does she.

“It would be an honor,” Lance hears himself saying, Pidge echoing the sentiment.

Emperor Lotor grins even wider. “Excellent, I shall inform my Slavemaster that there is to be a series of games two days hence! I got word that he recently procured an excellent batch of fighters from across the provinces, I am eager to see them in action.”

Lotor turns away from the window. “Please feel free to linger in the lounge, or if you so choose a servant will show you to your rooms. I will send for you when dinner is prepared, so that we may dine together and discuss certain matters regarding this summit.”

With that Emperor Lotor sweeps out of the room, leaving Lance, Pidge, and their respective guards exchanging exasperated glances before trailing behind him.


	4. if you threw yourself into the lion's den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much everyone for your lovely comments! <3 they fuel me.
> 
> This week's title is from Isacariot by Walk the Moon. Thanks also to Dina for being a fab beta! :)

On a map, the Galra mainland is shaded in dark reds and oranges to represent the rocky landscape, intermittent with jagged half-triangles to indicate the mountainous region, and dotted with thick black circles to mark cities or villages. However, no amount of coloring can prepare a traveller for just how blistering _hot_ it can be. The landscape seems to stretch far beyond the horizon, growing further and further away with every step. The heat reflected off the rocks ripples through air, doing its best to cook Keith right in his armor. The iron shackles around his wrists and ankles that keep him chained to the rest of the slaves burn into his skin, and he adjusts them every few minutes with an irritated scowl. The group rests only at night, rising with the sun to begin the long day of walking all over again.

Slavemaster Thace wasn’t lying when he said it was a long way to Daibazaal. The day they left, Keith had been kicked awake at the crack of dawn, chained to the rest of the slaves purchased from other arenas around the provinces, and practically shoved through the Slavan main gates. It’s already been a few movements since then. Keith’s feet hurt.

The only other travelers they’ve passed on the road consisted of a single travelling merchant and the nobleman’s carriage just outside of Daibazaal’s main gates. Besides those two  _ stunning _ instances of entertainment, Keith was left to his own mind, a dangerous place to be for someone of Keith’s temperament, especially considering where he’s going.

Galra mainland. It’s been fifteen years since the raid on Keith’s village, so theoretically, the one-eyed man who had taken everything from him could already be dead. But, like he knows that Shiro is still alive, Keith knows the one-eyed man is also. And maybe he can turn this journey to Daibazaal into an opportunity. Do whatever he has to do to earn the Slavemaster’s favor so that he may be granted his freedom, and then once he has it, track down the one-eyed man and kill him. It's a foolish hope, though.

Keith clenches and unclenches his fist, wishing he could hold his dagger for comfort.

As they finally pass through the gates to Daibazaal, however, Keith can’t help but let his eyes wander and lips part in barely contained awe as he takes in the city. Since being sold as a child to the gladiator ring, Keith had seen very little beyond the circular walls of the arena and the occasional backstreet of Slavan. Travelling through barren land was a wonder in itself (at least at the beginning of the journey) but now Keith is surrounded once again on all sides by people fighting tooth and nail to take even a single step.

Keith gives himself ten seconds to admire his surroundings before schooling his expression back into a hard glare. He’s deep in enemy territory now; surrounded on all sides by the people who murdered his village. Maybe not literally, but there was that saying that inaction helps not the oppressed but the oppressor.

Rising high above the skyline are the eight spires that mark the entrance to the Emperor’s palace, the inlaid obsidian glittering deceivingly.  _ Here lives a noble Emperor, but do not be fooled by his white smile for his heart is black as night. _

Keith glares at it as they pass, instead making for the ovular building towering just behind it. Layers over layers of arches and meticulously carved statues decorate the outside, with enormous tapestries depicting men in various states of being stabbed or trampled fluttering in the light breeze. 

Keith knows without having to ask that it’s his grave.

He and the other prisoners are tugged through a gate that leads down into the underground, the stairs steep and treacherous to walk down without the support of handrails. The steps open up into a labyrinth of dimly lit stone hallways lined with torches. Slavemaster Thace, at the head of the group, takes the lead and directs the group down the left hallway.

“Welcome to the Daibazaal Coliseum,” he says as they walk. “This will be your new home until you find your final place with the gods. The rules here are simple; no killing each other unless people are paying to see it. Rations are distributed three times a day, to be eaten and not stored.”

They pass a doorway that opens into what looks to be a mess hall. Rows and rows of benches thrust up against tables laden with dishware. Men linger about as they nibble on dry bread, watched closely by the guards lining the perimeter of the room. The seasoned gladiators make obscene gestures as Keith’s group shuffles past, laughing amongst themselves.

“On days where there are no games, you have mandatory training from sunup to lunch; after that you have free reign of the unrestricted underground arena until dinner, when you will be sent back to your cells. Access to the armory and stables are forbidden.”

Thace finally approaches an iron gate that he unlocks with a key around his neck. Heading down another set of stairs, Keith finds himself in the gladiator barracks. Most are already occupied with two to three men, lounging on cots or praying to whatever gods suit their fancy.

With practiced efficiency, the new slaves are unchained and sorted into open barracks. Keith is shoved into an empty cell that has the rest of the gladiators snickering amongst themselves. The cell is obviously lived in, with the furthest cot from the cell door already laden with various knick knacks and personal items, the blanket rumpled as if recently slept in. 

_ Kid’s gonna get killed on his first day,  _ the gladiators whisper.  _ Bad luck being roommates with the Champion. _

Keith allows himself a second to pause at the moniker  _ Champion,  _ since it was Shiro’s gladiator name back in Slavan. The likelihood of finding him here, in Daibazaal, is slim to none though, and who’s to say there isn’t more than one Champion. Keith shakes the thought from his mind. He doesn’t know who this Champion guy is, and he doesn’t really care one way or another. He sits on the other empty cot, facing the stone wall and rubbing at his aching wrists.

“Hey, kid,” says a voice. Keith glances up from his hands to peer through the bars that cut him off from his new neighbor. The guy is tall and lean, an unusual body type for a gladiator. Keith would write him off as an extra body, an easy kill to show off the skill of a more powerful gladiator, but the scars littered across his arms and torso suggest he’s more resilient than he appears. His face is average, rectangular with a sloping jaw and drooping eyes. His mouth, encompassed by the beginnings of a beard, tilt up in a lazy grin.

“What?” Keith grunts, sitting up and crossing his arms.

“You’re new, right?”

“Mmm.”

The guy lets out a low whistle. “Where ya from?”

“Nowhere.”

“Name?”

“Don’t need one.”

The gladiator snorts. “Not much of a talker, are ya?”

Keith glances at him. “We’re literally going to kill each other for the entertainment of the upper class. There’s not much use getting to know each other. The less I know the easier it is to kill you.”

The other man shrugs like Keith didn’t just threaten to kill him. “Yeah, you got a point. I just like to get to know the other fighters. Makes me feel less like an animal and more like a human.”

Keith casts his eyes down to his hands, keeping his mouth firmly shut.

“I’m Rolo, by the way.”

“I’m tired,” Keith says shortly. “I’ve been travelling without rest for a while, and would appreciate some time to myself.”

The gladiator, Rolo, shrugs again. “Suit yourself,” he says. “The Champion will probably be back soon, so I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you. People say he’s a vicious fighter with a personality to match.”

Keith thinks of the one-eyed man, and the way he laughed as Keith’s home burnt to the ground with his father still inside.  _ I’ve met vicious,  _ he thinks bitterly.  _ Compared to him, everyone else is a newborn lamb. _

Keith is a light sleeper by nature. Even before he was taken away, he could spend countless hours into the night wide awake, staring up at the stars or talking to the horses. After he was promoted from body boy to gladiator, Keith learned that people are always quick to get revenge for one thing or another, killing a brother or refusing to die when told to throw the match.

So when the bars to Keith’s cell rattle, echoing through the underground barracks, Keith is immediately awake, hand tightening on his mother’s knife stashed beneath his pillow. Footsteps shuffle into the room, and then the gate rattles closed again.

_ The Champion,  _ Keith thinks, keeping his eyes closed and breaths slow and even. The footsteps shuffle in the direction of the other cot, pause, and then shuffle back near the door, near Keith. Checking out the new meat, Keith figures. Best to get this introduction over with so his new roommate doesn’t try anything.

The footsteps stop right at the edge of Keith’s cot. Keith waits to see what the Champion will do, straining his ears for any sign that he means to attack. The seconds seem to stretch on for hours, Keith’s hand cramps a bit where it grips the hilt of his knife.  _ What is he waiting for?  _

The Champion inhales sharply, and Keith is up in a flash, kicking out one leg and nailing the man in the kidney. He grunts, stumbling back, and that’s all the leverage Keith needs to knock him off balance. The Champion hits the ground with a thud, and then Keith is on top, one knee pressed against the man’s chest, opposite foot outstretched and pinning the man’s left arm to the ground. Keith increases the pressure of his forearm on The Champion’s throat, causing the pinned man to cough for air.

“So you’re the Champion,” Keith says. It’s too dark, too late in the night to make out any defining facial features, but the dim light from the flickering lamps outside cast light onto a shock of pale hair. An older guy, then.

“That’s what they call me,” the Champion says, and something about that voice…

“We’re getting one thing straight,” Keith growls. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, and we’re going to keep it that way. Leave me alone, and maybe, when I kill you in the arena, I’ll make your death painless.”

“But I do know you,” the Champion says, and Keith’s eyes widen.

It’s not possible. It’s been over a year. The rest of the Slavan gladiators were convinced he was dead but… Keith knew. He knew that the man that everyone said was a vicious killer, the man that took one look at the troubled orphan and decided he was someone worth protecting, the man that trained him, the man that called him  _ his brother,  _ was still alive.

That he’s here, now, pinned to the ground but very much alive, has tears building in Keith’s eyes for the first time since his father was murdered.

“ _ Shiro!?” _

Shiro chuckles underneath him, as much as he can with Keith’s forearm still pressed against his throat. “Your reflexes have gotten better since the last time I saw you.”

Keith stopped believing in gods years ago, but he thinks he might start praying again. He scrambles up and offers his hand to help Shiro back to his feet. Shiro waves away Keith’s offered right hand, instead offering his left. Keith doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly switched dominant hands until Shiro finally stands to his full height, and Keith gets a good long look at his brother.

He’s just as broad-shouldered as he was when they met, but other than that he looked like a completely different man. His hair had gone almost completely white despite his age, and an ugly scar stretches across his nose, which looks like it had been broken a few times. What really has Keith’s blood boiling in his veins, though is Shiro’s entire right arm… or rather, a lack of one. Where the arm that rubbed his back when the stress of his job grew too much used to be, there is now some kind of metal contraption set into the stump.

“What did they  _ do to you?”  _ Keith can’t take his eyes off the amputated arm. Shiro shifts and rubs at the shoulder with an embarrassed laugh.

“Put me up against one of their best gladiators during my first games here,” he says, turning to go sit down on his cot. Keith follows, wanting to be as close to his brother as possible. “Myzax was ruthless, but I outsmarted him and finally managed to kill him…” Shiro raises the stump with a small, self-deprecating grin. “Not without some consequences though.”

“Why would they keep you?” Keith asks. “A gladiator without an arm isn’t much use to anyone.”

“Apparently I was worth the investment,” Shiro shrugs. “This contraption on my stump lets me  _ literally  _ have a sword for an arm, or a mace, or a spear, or whatever Slavemaster Thace thinks it should be for the day. It took some getting used to but have a guy with a sword for an arm in the arena is good for ticket sales. Apparently  _ I’m  _ the favorite now.”

Keith lets all thought drift from his mind then, raising one hand to delicately rest on Shiro’s shoulder, still not quite believing that he’s here, and that they are together again. He can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers, and a swell of emotion rising from the deepest parts of his chest, like an animal trying to crawl its way up his throat. Anger at the people who did this to his brother, relief that he’s alive, and a burning passion to never allow them to be separated again.

Keith chokes on the emotion clogging his throat. Shiro instantly wraps his remaining arm around Keith’s shoulders, pulling them into a warm embrace.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Shiro says into Keith’s hair.

Keith buries his face into Shiro’s shoulder. “Me too.”

The brothers remain awake late into the night, exchanging stories from their year apart. Keith tells him about his exploits in the Slavan arena, how he earned the moniker Red Lion, how Slavemaster Thace watched him fight and decided to bring him here. Shiro listens intently, and Keith talks more over the course of an hour than he has in the past two weeks.

Shiro in turn tells him how he’d also been sold to the Daibazaal Coliseum, though it was run at the time by the Slavemaster before Thace, a man by the name of Ulaz. The time Shiro and Ulaz had together was slim, since he was replaced by Thace not long after Shiro’s first games and subsequent injury. Taking down the reigning champion, Myzax, had earned him a serious reputation amongst the rest of the gladiators, and quickly rose through the popularity polls until he held the number one spot for the past eight months.

“How many bouts have you won?”

Shiro shrugs, face turned away. “I’ve lost count.”

“Surely you must be nearing two hundred? So that you may receive the Thuris and be freed?”

By Galra law, a gladiator that wins two hundred matches has the right to be granted a Thuris, a ceremonial wooden sword engraved with the champion’s name on one side and the Empire’s motto on the other. If the gladiator accepts, he is officially retired and may be freed from his Oath to live a normal life. The life someone like Shiro deserves.

Shiro shrugs again. “Even if I did reach two hundred, do you think Slavemaster Thace would release his main attraction? I’m much too valuable. My only escape from this place is death.”

Keith shakes his head violently, standing from the bed. “No. No, how dare they try to cheat you of your right to freedom!”

“Keith…”

“The Empire speaks of honor and glory, yet it has none!”

“Keith! Sit back down. It would do no good to wake the guards.”

The bells chime the three am hour, and Keith realizes that they have been talking for far longer than he had thought. Shiro finally insists that they go to bed.

“There’s a long day of training tomorrow. Slavemaster Thace was telling me that there will be an event in a few days time to celebrate the arrival of some foreign diplomats. Tomorrow we’re they’re training you and the rest of the new gladiators, deciding the itinerary, et cetera. You’d better rest up.”

Keith is loathe to let go of Shiro, for fear that he’ll wake up back in the barracks of Slavan and realize it was all a dream. But he trusts Shiro, the only person in the world who has managed to peek behind the walls Keith has built around his heart, and finally retreats to his own cot. The two brothers roll to face each other on their cots, drinking in the other’s face until their eyelids grow heavy and finally drift closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always you can follow me on twitter @shallweklance for klance-y goodness


	5. hide your soul out of his reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your lovely comments, I finished two more chapters so updates will be consistent for a few more weeks ^^
> 
> Chapter title from Soldier by Fleurie

There’s a proverb in Altea:  _ He who provokes war is doomed to die from it.  _ In other words, those who incite conflict will reap the consequences.

Lance is considering reaping those consequences, because he’s not sure how much longer he can sit here at this table, drinking dark tea with the Emperor, as said Emperor sings the Coliseum’s praises.

“Perhaps you would like a tour of the Coliseum? Being the Emperor, I can show you exactly where the magic happens. The armory, the stable, the training grounds, wherever you’d like to go, it’s yours to see.”

Lance would  _ really  _ like to go home, that’s what he’d like. It’s been barely a day since his arrival in Daibazaal and already the cultural differences between Altea and the Empire are  _ stark.  _ The dark color palate of the decor makes Lance and Kinkade’s bright Altean colors stand out, making them easily visible from across an enormous ballroom. Breakfast had been disastrous, with Lance committing a few social faux pas despite all the reading up on Galran culture he’d done before arriving.

(In his defense, the etiquette book did not tell him that you weren’t supposed to drink before eating, so how was Lance supposed to know that!?)

And now he’s being asked by Emperor Lotor if he would like a tour of the Coliseum, the gladiator arena, which to Alteans is a barbaric building in which an Altean would not be caught dead in. But here Lance is, about to willingly walk into one on a tour like he’s some common tourist. And gods forbid he refuse, and risk the negotiations which  _ haven’t even started yet.  _

Why Lotor feels the need to entertain his guests for far longer than necessary Lance will never know, or perhaps this is another one of the cultural highlights the etiquette book conveniently neglected to mention.

Pidge bows her head. “I am quite interested in the stables, I must admit.”

Lance throws her a look, but he can see where this interest comes from. Olkarion is a dense country filled with forests that house a number of unique species. Of course an Olkari would be interested in what kind of animals the Coliseum has, and how they are being treated.

“Excellent!” Lotor claps his hands, and turns his eyes to Lance. “What say you, Your Grace? Would you perhaps be interested in meeting some of the gladiators? I hear that you have a…  _ proclivity  _ for the masculine.”

Lance pinches his lips, and does his best not to outwardly show his distaste. He is not ashamed of what he is. Alteans are very open about those kinds of things, not caring one way or the other the gender one likes to lay with. Yes, Lance likes his men the way he likes his women, but hearing it expressed in  _ that way  _ makes his skin itch.

This is far from the first minor offense Emperor Lotor has displayed since Lance’s arrival, but he likely meant nothing malicious about it, so against Lance’s instinctive response to give a tirade on the rude implications of the comment, Lance picks his battles and chooses to let it slide. “If that is what you think I will enjoy, Emperor Lotor, then I shall gladly entertain your gladiators for a spell.”

“I am most pleased to hear that.”

Lance’s mind flashes back to the mystery black-haired slave he had passed on the way to the capital. He wonders if that slave had been bound for the Daibazaal Coliseum as a gladiator, or if he was to be carted off somewhere else. He looked incredibly strong, and yes, while the muscles were impressive, Lance was more attracted to the way he kept his head high even as a slave, displaying a force of strength and will to overcome any hardship in his path.

Yes, Lance would indeed like to see that slave again.

“Shall we head off, then?” Emperor Lotor asks. “If going now suits your fancy. I believe the gladiators will be in the arena training for the games tomorrow right about now.”

Lance flashes one of his best eager-to-please smiles. “How could I refuse?”

A dobash or so later sees Lance, Pidge, and Lotor in the back of an exquisite carriage, rattling out of the palace gates and down the main path to the coliseum. Kinkade and Hunk ride their horses on either side, while Lotor’s guards form a long line to the front and back of the carriage, parting the citizens of Daibazaal like a ship cutting through ocean waves. Lance tries to listen as Lotor talks about the history of the coliseum, he really really does, but as the building itself comes into view, his mind drifts into dangerous territory, imagining all the death that occurs behind those walls. Lance feels a bit sick to his stomach.

The carriage jolts to a stop. Guards help their respective diplomats disembark, standing at fierce attention at their sides. The citizens wandering the market at the base of the main entrance gawk as Lotor flutters past, leading the way down the same wrought iron gate Lance had seen the day before. They are greeted by a tall, angular man the sigil on his chest marking him as Slavemaster.

“This is Slavemaster Thace,” Lotor indicates.

Slavemaster Thace drops to one knee, bowing his head in respect. “My lord Emperor.”

“Rise,” Lotor says dismissively, and the man does so. Turning to Lance, the Emperor continues, “I sent word ahead that we would be coming, and Slavemaster Thace has graciously agreed to give Lord Lance a private tour of the gladiator residences! They are on the complete opposite side of the underground than the stables, you see, and for us to be at all productive today in our negotiations, I thought it best that we split up; Lord Lance with Slavemaster Thace, and Lord Pidge with me.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Lance agrees enthusiastically, much to the indignant side-eye from Pidge beside him. Lance sticks his tongue out playfully as Lotor turns to Slavemaster Thace to give him more detailed instructions.

“You’re leaving me alone with Emperor Passive Aggressive over here??” Pidge angrily whispers.

“He  _ literally  _ wanted to buy Kinkade from me and stick him in the arena,” Lance whisper-shouts back. “I’m not giving him any more ideas.”

Pidge mumbles something under her breath, but Lotor is turning back to face them so they have no choice but to act perfectly normal.

“Your Grace, if you would follow me,” Slavemaster Thace nods his head low, and walks down the left hallway.

“Lord Pidge, if you please,” Lotor says, gesturing down a hallway to their right.

“See you on the other side,” Lance says. Pidge gives him one last subtle glare before following Lotor into the right corridor. Lance watches them go for a second longer before turning and quickening his step to catch up to Slavemaster Thace, Kinkade right on his heels.

Slavemaster Thace is a man of few words, Lance learns. Any attempt at idle small talk is quickly shut down until Lance is crossing his arms in a huff and ignoring everything around him. Not that there’s much to look at anyway; the corridors are made of rough stone, lit with torches and the occasional window high above their heads to filter in sunlight and air. Arched doorways lead into what look like baths, eating halls, and a few other communal areas, all curiously empty. The door to what Slavemaster Thace explains leads to the barracks, however, is firmly locked tight.

“Only I have the keys to that door,” Slavemaster Thace says when Lance inquires about it. “The only people allowed in there is myself, a few select guards, and the gladiators themselves. Anyone wishing to enter must be accompanied by me.”

“So why aren’t we going in?”

Slavemaster Thace looks to the ceiling. “Because no one is there. It’s training hours, all of the gladiators are above us in the arena.”

Oh, right. Emperor Lotor did say something about training, didn’t he?

Slavemaster Thace continues navigating the underground passages without the use of a map. Lance thinks with a low dread that if he were to try and find his way alone in this labyrinth of corridors he would surely get lost, wind up in the stables, and be eaten by a lion.

Finally, Slavemaster Thace steps into an enormous circular room, the walls dangling with weapons of various shapes and sizes. A few chariots are parked in a corner, waiting to be hitched to horses. an enormous archway across the room from where they had entered opens up into bright sunlight, the dust and sand of the arena floor spilling slightly through the iron bars that block off what could only be the preparation room from the arena itself. Lance can pick up the sharp  _ clack clack  _ of practice swords beating against wooden shields, men shouting and grunting curses under their breaths.

Lance blinks back the sudden brightness as the trio emerges into the arena, which looks even more massive from the ground. The coliseum towers high above his head, rows upon rows of stone seats lined up and waiting to be filled. The place looks like it could fit the entire population of Daibazaal, at least twenty five thousand people, twice over. At the head of the arena sits the officiator’s stand, a tall chair covered in a vine canopy for the Emperor to sit and watch.

Scattered throughout the arena, clumps of men in various states of exhaustion exchange blows with wooden swords, some with shields and some without. Some men forego weapons altogether, and grapple with each other bare-chested, skin glistening with sweat from the midday heat. Guards wearing full armor patrol the groups with a careful eye, real swords and whips in hand should there be any trouble.

Overall, Lance counts several dozen men, every single one covered in jagged scars that do not look like paper cuts.

“Your Grace,” Slavemaster Thace addresses Lance, voice dignified and demanding of respect. “These are the gladiators who shall fight and die for your honor tomorrow.”

Lance really wish he hadn’t mentioned that. He presses his lips together and gauges the body language of the gladiators. None seem to be hung up on the issue of possibly dying tomorrow; confident in their abilities to survive, perhaps, or simply resigning themselves to a fate they have been waiting for since first arriving to the coliseum. 

Slavemaster Thace gestures toward a small group of gladiators off to the side. “This way.”

Lance follows Slavemaster Thace as he approaches the group. At his side, Kinkade rubs the hilt of his sword comfortingly, and Lance wishes he could echo the sentiment with his own longbow.

“Champion,” Slavemaster Thace calls, and the tallest, most muscled man Lance thinks he’s ever seen looks up from where he was kneeling, catching his breath. His hair is a stark white, shadows under his eyes and scars across his nose and chest. Where his right arm should be, a wooden pole tapered to a rounded point is screwed into a stump of an arm. Lance decides he would like to remain on this man’s good side.

“This is our Champion,” Slavemaster Thace introduces. “He is our best gladiator, and will fight in single combat the warrior who can advance to furthest in our round of games.”

Lance roves his eyes over the Champion, and he can definitely see why he would be favored. The well-defined muscles, the square jaw, the intimidating number of scars. Slavemaster Thace is looking at him expectantly… should he say something?

“Uh…” Lance says eloquently. What is he supposed to say to someone who kills people for a living? “Good luck, tomorrow.”

The Champion inclines his head, and if Lance isn’t mistaken, an amused grin curls his mouth. “I fight for the glory of Galra,” he says in return.

A commotion suddenly rises up from the cluster of gladiators furthest away, turning everyone’s attention away from their own matches and toward the brawl that had apparently broken out between two of the gladiators. Lance was curious as to why this one fight would draw such attention; everyone was fighting each other right now, even if only for training.

A loose circle forms around the brawling gladiators, men beating their wooden swords against their shields in applause whenever something particularly interesting happened, and Lance’s curiosity gets the better of him. He leaves Kinkade talking to the Champion and cautiously approaches the circle.

The two gladiators inside are going at it with an intensity that seems to go beyond normal training. The taller of the two is wearing a baiting smirk like he cannot wait to see what the slightly smaller gladiator will do next. His brown hair flies around his face as he whirls to avoid a jab, laughing and taunting in a very unsportsmanlike manner, which only enrages his opponent.

The smaller gladiator is shorter, yes, but not by much, and what he lacks in height he makes up for in speed. He darts in circles around the laughing brunette, keeping low and waiting for openings before going in for a hit. Sometimes he lands one, and the brunette’s smirk falters every time he does. The gladiator’s hair, black as night and caked in sweat and sand, sticks to the back of his neck, and the realization hits Lance like a bolt of lightning.  _ He could recognize that hair anywhere. _

_ “It’s you!” _

The exclamation throws the black-haired gladiator off his rhythm, and the brown-haired one gets in a good kick to his gut. Lance’s gladiator ( _ really, brain? HIS gladiator?)  _ goes down hard, landing on his back and unable to resist when his opponent puts the wooden sword tip to his throat.

“You may have been a hot shot in the provinces,” the brunette gladiator says lowly, “but you’re in Daibazaal now. Watch where you step, Red Lion, or the next time I take you down, it’ll be permanently.”

The brunette gladiator steps away, calling for a water break and leaving the black-haired man, still on his back and glaring at the sky, in the dust. The circle of gladiators dissolves, going back to their own groups or following up on that water break, leaving behind Lance, the gladiator called Red Lion, and a guard standing with his arms crossed and looking like he’d have bet money on that fight if he could.

Lance feels kind of bad, honestly. Allura always said he talks too loudly, and now it seems it’s finally come back to bite him. If he hadn’t shouted, the Red Lion might have been able to put that asshole he was fighting back in his place. He needs to make this right, somehow.

“Sorry I shouted like that,” he says, leaning onto his knee with one hand and holding the other for the Red Lion to take. “Didn’t mean to throw you off your game. And you almost had that guy, too!”

The Red Lion glares up at Lance from the dust, squinting his eyes against the bright sun overhead. His eyes are lit brighter without distance or hair in the way; they glint with a burning fire that dwindles now without the energy of battle, but still burns like an ember in the hearth, just waiting to be stoked to full fury once again.

The Red Lion closes his eyes and rolls to his hands and knees, ignoring Lance completely. He holds a hand to his side, the side that had been kicked quite hard, and winces as he stands to full height, just a few centimeters short of Lance.

“I’ll get another chance at him tomorrow,” the Red Lion grunts, his voice surprisingly steady for a guy who just took a kick to the gut and should be winded as hell. He glares up again at Lance through the fringe of his bangs. “Who are you?”

Lance raises his chin, flashing his most charming smile. “Lance of the House McClain-Acosta, cousin to Queen Allura of Altea, and Ambassador to the Empire.” He leans forward slightly, tilting his head in the kind of way he knows catches the attention of whomever he wants that attention from. “And you are, Mr. Red Lion?”

The gladiator evaluates him silently for a moment, until: “I am a slave to the Coliseum, a servant to my master until he release me, or until death take me.”

Okay, well, that’s a mood-ruiner if Lance has ever encountered one. His expression drops, since it didn’t get him quite the reaction he was hoping for. He tries a different tactic. “You’re the gladiator from the road.”

The gladiator stares at him in utter confusion, thick brows knitting upward with eyes a little wide. “Excuse me?”

“You were on the road, and my carriage passed you! I was leaning out the window and we made eye contact!”

The gladiator pauses, scanning his eyes up and down Lance’s face, body, clothes, as if searching his own memory for a hint of familiarity. Finally something in his mind seems to click, and his expression sours slightly.

“Ah, I remember. You were that noble leaning dangerously out of the window. I was wondering if you were going to fall out and be run over by your own carriage.” His lips pull up into a smirk. “Guess not.”

Lance sputters, but he doesn’t have a moment to retort because a guard is jamming the butt of his sword into the gladiator’s back, sending the man to the ground with a small grunt of pain.

“You will not speak to your betters that way, barbarian!” the guard growls. “Apologize or you won’t have enough strength left to survive tomorrow’s games.”

“That’s quite enough!” Lance holds out a hand in an attempt to placate the guard, who glares back in response.

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” the guard says. “It is not your place to discipline these barbarians.”

This is not the Emperor of an empire. This is not a fancy dinner party where Lance is expected to wear his smile like a theater mask, carefully controlling his emotions as he had been taught to avoid an incident. This is not a trade negotiation.

“With all due respect,” Lance bites back, raising his voice slightly to assert authority. “It is not your place to abuse a person for no clear purpose. Yes, perhaps his words were brash but that does not make them any less true. Do not punish a man for speaking the truth.  _ Especially  _ not in front of me.” Lance crosses his arms, leveling his best authoritative glare. “Call it cultural differences, but this is one I will not grin and bare. Step away from the gladiator,  _ now. _ ”

The guard looks shocked to have been ripped into by an Altean ambassador. He looks conflicted with himself: technically he doesn’t have to follow Lance’s orders since Lance is Altean and on foreign soil, but that still does not negate Lance’s social standing far above his own.

“Best to do as he says, Prorok,” Slavemaster Thace says calmly from behind Lance. “Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression and have the Ambassador report back to the Emperor, would we?”

Prorok grumbles something under his breath but sheaths his sword, stepping back and giving the Red Lion room to stand.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks, reaching out a hand to brush some sand from the gladiator’s shoulder.

Red Lion jerks backward like he’d been burned, twisting his body away and lengthening the distance between them. “I don’t need your help,” he growls. “I’ve been doing this my whole life, I don’t need some upstart foreign aristocrat swooping in, flashing his credentials and making my life even more hellish than it already is.”

Red Lion spins on his heel, making for the arena’s exit. He passes the Champion along the way, who looks from him to Lance and back again before murmuring an apology to Kinkade and following.

“I must apologize for our Red Lion,” Slavemaster Thace says, composed as ever. “He’s only been here a day or so, he’s adjusting.”

“I was just trying to help,” Lance mutters, more than a little put out at the gladiator’’s rejection of his assistance. “Who pissed in his wine?”

“Possibly the Slavan Slavemaster I picked him up from,” Slavemaster Thace says with a shrug of the shoulders. “The human mind is fragile, and easily broken. All I know is he’s been in this line of work for at least fifteen years, so it’s bound to influence him in some ways.”

Fifteen years? He didn’t look much older than Lance, who was still in his early twenties. Lance tries to imagine being thrust into the life of a gladiator as a child, and shudders at the thought.

“Your Grace?”

Lance turns to his guard. “Come, Kinkade,” he says, flicking his eyes away from where the Red Lion had disappeared. “I’m done here.”


	6. do you walk in the shadow of men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who has stuck with me this far! You have no idea what it means to me.
> 
> Thanks again to Dina for beta-reading!
> 
> This week's title is from "Glitter and Gold" by Barns Courtney

Keith doesn’t know whether to be insulted or grateful, and it’s an emotional conflict he hasn’t felt in a long time.

His side still aches from where James kicked him, and he knows without looking that it’s going to bruise. Keith winces as he shrugs off his leather chest plate, the broken skin protesting vehemently, and sinks into the hot bath with a heavy sigh.

If that stupid nobleman hadn’t shouted, he definitely would have won that fight. It was James’ fault it had started anyway. Keith had expected some sort of initiation hazing upon his arrival, and he was prepared for some punching or throwing of food. It was nothing he hadn’t handled before as a newly appointed body boy in Slavan, easy fodder for the grown ups. What he didn’t expect was for James to attack him verbally.

_ Bet your whore mother couldn’t afford to keep you,  _ he’d said.  _ Or your drunk father sold you off for just one more drop of ale. _

Keith hadn’t meant to lose control of himself, he really hadn’t. People in the Slavan arena had learned quickly not to cross paths with him, especially after Shiro was sent away, so being suddenly thrust to the bottom of the proverbial food chain yet again was taking its toll on him. Just the implication that Keith’s family had willingly gotten rid of him, instead of his mother disappearing soon after his birth or his father being murdered and burned in a raid… it lit a fire in his chest that had long since gone out.

So really, it was James’ fault that Keith punched him.

Keith rubs the scrub brush over his body until his skin turns pink, glaring at the water as it turns a dark murky color from all the sweat and dirt. A cluster of bubbles float together to form a shape that really looks nothing like that stupid nobleman’s face, but he pretends it does and drops his fist into it with a heavy splash. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but he pretends it does.

Keith’s good at that. Pretending.

The cluster of bubbles reforms, the Altean’s — Lance, was his name? — face floating to his mind once again. Butting in where they don’t belong seems to be a running theme in the aristocratic circles, even the ones beyond the Galran nobility. Keith has never met an Altean before, but his father had shown him books and told him stories. Keith remembers how much he wanted to visit Altea one day, to see something other than the rocky crags of Empire land. Keith scowls. The first Altean he meets and it’s a pompous ass that doesn’t know when to quit. Just his luck.

He is vaguely aware of someone else entering the baths, bare feet slapping against the wet tiled floor, but he doesn’t turn around to see who it is. He sits and soaks, letting the warm water slowly draw out the aches in his muscles in a rare moment of peace.

The other person in the room slides into the bath next to him. Keith opens his eyes to snap at him to go away, but the words die when he sees it’s just Shiro. Keith doesn’t know if that’s for better or for worse.

“Hey,” Shiro says once he realizes Keith has noticed him. “You’ve still got soap in your hair.”

Keith’s hands fly up to pat at his head, rubbing his hands against the top of his head and only succeeding in making his hair stand up in every direction. Shiro laughs, so Keith splashes him in the face with soapy water, and the fight is on. More water ends up on the tiled floor than in the bath itself by the time the brothers tire of their splashing.

Keith exhales sharply and slides into the bath until only his head is above water. Shiro lathers up his body as best he can with one arm, the silence growing as the bathwater calms, broken only by the occasional slosh of movement from their bodies.

“How did you know I’d be in the baths?” Keith asks finally, staring straight across at the opposite wall.

Shiro shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess,” he says. “You always went to the baths in Slavan whenever you lost a fight or had some deep thinking to do.”

Keith hadn’t even realized his own habit, and slides further into the water in embarrassment, the water now covering his mouth and nose. Keith wonders whether he can hold his can hold his breath long enough for Shiro to not bring up whatever it is he wants to talk about.

No such luck.

"That’s a nasty lookin’ bruise.”

Keith releases a slew of air bubbles from his nose, rising back up to a proper sitting position when his lungs start to ache. He shrugs and frowns at his rippling reflection in the water. “I had it under control.”

Shiro hums. “I suppose you did, though perhaps maybe I should ask  _ why  _ you had to have something under control in the first place? Shouldn’t you be trying to get along with the men?”

“Why should I be making friends with them when we’re all going to kill each other someday anyway,” Keith grumbles to himself, not sure if Shiro can hear. Louder, he continues, “Bastard called my mother a whore and father a drunk.” Keith bows his head low, so his bangs brush against the surface of the water, creating ripples that slosh against the sides of the bath calmly. “I couldn’t let him insult people he has never known.”

It took many years of gentle coaxing and trust building before Keith, at the tender age of fifteen, finally opened up to Shiro about his past. There had been copious tears, the first of their kind in many years, and the bond that had been forged between them had deepened beyond mentor and ward. Shiro knew about his kidnapping and Akira’s death, Keith’s mother’s absence and the knife that now lies hidden beneath the floorboards of their shared barrack.

Shiro nods his understanding. “And what about the ambassador?”

At the mention of the Altean, Keith’s shoulder’s tense. “What about him?”

“He was only trying to defuse the situation,” Shiro reasons. “And he probably saved you from being sent to the rack to be lashed. Why snap at him so?”

“I don’t need his help.”

“You know, Keith,” Shiro says gently. “It’s okay to accept help from other people every once in a while. I know you’ve been on your own for a long time, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you more, but opening yourself up to more people and making friends could really do you some good.”

“Are you telling me to make friends with an Altean I’ll probably never see again?”

“Not necessarily,” Shiro backtracks. “I’m merely suggesting that—“

“I don’t need anybody else,” Keith snaps. “I have you back and that’s all I need.”

“But I’m not always going to be here,” Shiro says sharply, so much in fact that Keith’s jaw snaps shut instinctively, leaning away from his brother with eyebrows raised in surprise. Shiro sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What I mean to say,” he continues, more softly, “is that this business is unpredictable, but we all know what eventually happens to all of us. We don’t know if it will happen tomorrow or a week or even a month from now, but there is no escaping this arena. One day, this one arm of mine will finally become a weakness that will be my undoing.”

Keith has only seen Shiro this serious right before he enters the arena, face carefully controlled neutrality. Sometimes Keith forgets that Shiro is almost a decade older than him, and has the experience and wisdom to prove it. “Shiro…!”

“Let me finish. Whether it was like Slavan, being sold and sent away, or when my blood finally soaks the sand like so many thousands before me, at some point, Keith, I won’t be there to stand beside you. Having only one person to rely on is not healthy, for you or the other.”

A glance for Shiro tells Keith that the conversation is over. Keith leans back against the rim of the bath to ruminate on the sudden dark turn the conversation had taken. and the brothers sit in silence for a spell.

When a cacophony of voices and clattering armor draws nearer as the rest of the gladiators return from training, Keith and Shiro step out of the water, skin pruned and red from the heat, and redress themselves in loose, fraying tunics before returning to their barrack where they can have a little more privacy.

That privacy does not last long, however. Soon enough they are being summoned to the mess hall, where there is enough room for all of the gladiators to have a seat as Slavemaster Thace steps onto a podium at the front of the room. Keith slides onto a bench just behind Shiro. A few tables down, James catches his eye and jeers, making a thumbs down motion to the amusement of his buddies.

Thumbs down. The symbol of death to a gladiator.

Keith does his best to ignore James, to ignore the churning in his gut that he hasn’t felt in years. It’s the nervousness that comes with entering the arena for the first time, knowing it’s kill or be killed, and not knowing if you could stomach either.

“The Emperor has requested that we hold a days worth of games tomorrow,” Thace announces. A surprised murmur rises among the gladiators. Thace holds up a hand to silence them before continuing. “I know we usually have more time to prepare, but the Emperor wishes to impress the Olkari and Altean ambassadors during their visit. As the Emperor wishes, so shall it be done.”

One of the guards steps forward to hand Thace a scroll. The Slavemaster unrolls it, clears his throat, and begins reading off the battle assignments. This part of the job Keith is aware of, at least. The newer gladiators are announced first, starting off the games with an easy challenge before the more experienced gladiators take center stage to wow the audience with cheap slaves or beasts. In Slavan, Keith was always announced last, usually slated to fight whoever survive the most battles beforehand. Now, he’s announced near the middle, in a group versus group scenario.

Keith curses under his breath. He doesn’t work well with others.

Group versus group battles usually are supposed to reenact some kind of historical event, a conquest or a glorious battle that ended in victory for the host of the Games. Thace continues, “Rivak, Red Lion, Attikus, Rolo, Minak, and Kelt, you six are playing the roles of—“ 

Keith doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care who or what he’s supposed to be. All he cares to know is who he’s fighting.

“Revali, Titus, and James. You will lead the charge on the opposing side and will be representing…”

James levels a smirk at Keith from across the room. Keith continues ignoring him.

Finally, near the end of the assignments, Shiro’s name is announced. “Whomever is victorious in the single combat rounds until the end shall have the honor of fighting our one and only Champion.”

Keith looks at his brother. To an outsider it looks like a newbie looking into the face of his possible killer, feigning confidence with a twitch of fear, which is exactly what Keith and Shiro want them to think. They had decided it was better for everyone if no one realized they already know each other. Exposing weaknesses - like strong ties of brotherhood - in this line of work is asking for someone to exploit you.

Shiro’s face is cold and impassive, a personality he wears like a stone mask, apparently unsurprised with this assignment. Shiro warned Keith about the mask; the more bloodthirsty he seemed, the more likely he would go out into the arena to face the horrors there in place of the trembling boys who had never lifted a sword in their lives. A noble sacrifice.

Slavemaster Thace brings the meeting to a close, and the gladiators dissipate to do whatever the hell they want to. Keith stands to go back to his cell when someone wraps their arm around his shoulders. His immediate thought is  _ James  _ and moves to retaliate but then the smooth drawl of his barrack neighbor, Rolo, meets his ears and he manages to stop his elbow right before it clocks the other gladiator in the face.

“That’s a strong elbow you got there,” Rolo compliments, rubbing his nose even though it wasn’t hit. “I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

“Well, you’re not yet,” Keith grouses, lowering his arm back to his side and moving to take a step away. From the corner of his eye he can see Shiro glancing in their direction with a raised eyebrow, and, remembering their conversation from the baths, Keith purses his lips and reroutes his movement so it looks like he was simply shifting his weight.

“Apparently we’re on the same side tomorrow,” Rolo continues. If he notices Keith’s poorly-disguised disinterest in the conversation he doesn’t comment on it. “Lucky us; we won’t be eligible to go up against the Champion tomorrow.”

“I’m on no one’s side but my own,” Keith snips, but is secretly relieved to hear that he won’t be pitted against Shiro. He doesn’t know what he would do if he was forced to fight his brother to the death.

“Don’t say that, Red,” Rolo snickers, shoving his fist into Keith’s shoulder playfully. “I’ve got your back, and you’ve got mine, yeah?” He backs off with a low chuckle at Keith’s short glare.

“Every man for himself,” Keith replies.

“If you say so.” Rolo turns and raises a hand in a short wave. “See you tomorrow, Red. Don’t die.” He moves to approach who Keith assumes to be another one of the gladiators assigned to their team for tomorrow’s group bout. Keith crosses his arms, and pretends that he’s not looking at Rolo’s butt as he goes.

Keith goes to bed early that night, as he does every night before a day full of games. The first warm up bouts aren’t until the late morning, but preparation takes up much of the morning and it helps to be well rested. Shiro brings him his ration of bread, and they eat in silence. Keith can feel Shiro’s eyes burning into him as he eats, the tension growing thicker and thicker until Keith could run it through with his knife.

“What?” he finally says, meeting Shiro’s eyes with a burning fire of his own.

“I’m not trying to discredit you,” his brother begins delicately. “I know you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself. I’m just concerned about tomorrow.”

“You’re right, I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“After your fight with James today,” Shiro continues. “I can’t help but wonder if he intends to play dirty.”

Keith swallows the dry bread, feeling it settle heavily in his stomach. “I’m no stranger to playing dirty.”

“Maybe you should think of a plan?”

“I have a plan,” Keith grunts, shifting on his bed to lay down with his back to Shiro. “Don’t die.”

“Keith…”

“I’ve been doing this on my own for a year now, Shiro. This isn’t my first reenactment. I’ll be fine.”

Exactly how fine he will be, Keith cannot say. All he knows is that going in with confidence in one’s own abilities helps quell the subconscious fear that maybe, this time, he’s found his match and maybe, this time, he’ll enter the arena and never come back out.

Shiro seems to sense that he won’t be getting much else out of Keith tonight. He exhales heavily, the straw crinkling as he, too, lays down. “Just don’t die,” he says quietly as the final word.

Keith curls his hand around his mother’s knife beneath his pillow, closing his eyes. “You too."


	7. this is wild game of survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a week late, guys! I had some family issues this past week, but things have calmed down now so I can finally upload my favorite chapter! It's a little longer that the others to make up for it.
> 
> We've arrived at the gladiator games, so please mind the violence tags. The next chapter is the last one I have completed so after next week updates will get a little sporadic, sorry bout that.
> 
> This week's title is from "Game of Survival" by Ruelle

If Lance wasn’t about to watch people die for his entertainment, he thinks he would be a lot more impressed by the energy that surrounds the coliseum on the day of the Games.

Even before leaving the palace, foregoing his flow-y ambassador’s uniform in favor of a form-fitting dark blue and pastel pink suit, Lance could hear the clamoring of the city as it prepared for a long day of festivities. Vendors line the streets selling seasoned meats on sticks, creamed sweets, and other delectable smelling foods that makes Lance’s mouth water. Other vendors are yelling out names and holding of vials of what look to be a pale watery liquid. When he asks, Emperor Lotor bares his neck with a smirk, like he wants Lance to sniff. He does, and is met with a thick, masculine scent of perhaps iron, wet earth, and… sweat?

“That’s correct!” Emperor Lotor preens when Lance voices his guess. “It’s a popular industry to wear the sweat of your favorite gladiators as a cologne. Though I know some who also use it for more… sensual purposes.”

Lance chokes on his spit, glaring at Pidge as she cackles at his dumbfounded expression.

The crowd is nigh unmovable as the carriage carrying the nobles crawls its way to the coliseum, and Lance thinks the only reason they make any progress whatsoever is thanks to the guards that part the crowd like the bow of a ship cutting through waves on the sea. The carriage pulls up to a side entrance laid on either side with stone wolves, the symbolic animal of the Galran royal family, on either side, standing on their back legs and swiping outstretched claws at each other, teeth bared in a menacing growl.

The entrance leads to the Officiator’s box, where a high-backed throne, reserved for the Emperor, sits facing the arena. The people in the stands rise to their feet as Emperor Lotor enters, seating only after he has made himself comfortable on his throne. On either side are slightly less taller but no less intricate seats for royal guests, into which Lance and Pidge are directed with their respective guards standing protectively behind them.

The Games Officiator is a tall, gangly man, his hair combed back across his head like ridges in a marble bust not yet smoothed. He seems to enjoy his job a little too much, judging by the way he quiets the crowd with ease, voice booming as he announces the entrance of the Emperor and his guests.

“Our brave and magnificent Emperor has brought together three great nations for the first time since the Great War,” he begins. Lance wonders vaguely if the people on the far side of the coliseum can hear what he’s saying. “We hold these Games to welcome our guests, His Grace Lord Lance of the Altean Kingdom, and Her Lordship Madame Pidge of Olkarion to the great Galran Empire.”

The crowd erupts into a loud cheer that echoes and rebounds and deafens. Lance again wonders to himself, if any of the people in attendance even know what he and Pidge are here for.

The games begin with warm up bouts, most in single combat or versus a beast of ferocious nature. Lance notices a distinct lack of lions among the beasts, and hopes that Lotor had the foresight to inform whoever it is who runs the stage behind the scenes not to send the sacred animal of the Altean Kingdom to be slaughtered.

With each round, Lance grows more and more tense, sometimes having to turn his face away so he doesn’t have to see the finishing blow. Their seats are low enough to the rim of the arena that he can practically see the sweat glistening on their sun-browned skin, or at least what skin he can see beneath the armor or blood.

Pidge seems equally uncomfortable, though she does a better job than Lance of keeping her eyes on the arena below. Lance admires her tenacity, but he does notice the clench of her fists in her lap that betrays her displeasure. In her country, all life is sacred, and to see it being thrown away so carelessly a blow to her pride as an Olkari.

The Officiator throws out a thumbs down, and the match below comes to a bloody end, much to the joy of the crowd. Young boys, probably no older than Lance’s nephews, race into view to pull the disemboweled body of the most recent kill into the pit where the other bodies had been dragged. Other slaves set to work sifting the blood-soaked sand away, though it goes unnoticed by the onlookers, as their attention is drawn to the Officiator who is pushing himself to his feet to announce the next match.

The crowd goes quiet as the man throws both arms wide. “For the viewing pleasure of our Emperor, Lotor the First, and his guests in this era of peace, The Daibazaalan Coliseum will recreate the iconic victory against the Balmeran uprising in the North!”

Lance throws his gaze to Hunk, eyebrows knotting in concern for his friend. Hunk, being Balmeran himself, knows all too well the stereotypes that surround his people and culture. The Balmeran mountains are rich with ore and gems, so of course of the Galran Empire had jumped at the excuse to conquer. Those that survived the initial battle were sent to work as slaves in the mines under conditions that would have any sane person crying foul. At one point there was a protest against the conditions, a protest that was violently shut down. It was reported that the death toll was only a couple dozen, but Lance and other officials from neighboring countries feared it was actually hundreds.

Luckily, Hunk had already been in the employ of the Olkarion government and hadn’t witnessed it firsthand, but it was still his people that were slain left and right. To see it now, shoved into his face beneath the roaring of an excited crowd… Lance wishes he could reach around to place a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, which visibly shakes with either sadness or rage, he does not know.

Lance watches as a half dozen gladiators are led out into the arena, chains connected to a single shackle around their right ankles that rattle and echo in the vast space. Lance immediately recognizes the mop of black hair that belongs to the fiery-tempered Red Lion he’d talked to the previous day, and his heart thumps painfully against his chest. The dragging ends of the chains are gathered by guards and connected to the enormous stone that had risen from the depths of the arena on some kind of rising stage. The gladiators adjust their grips on their weapons, raising them high above their heads as they face the Emperor.

“Victory,” they shout, voices rising in the din of the crowd, “or death!”

“Vrepit sa!” the crowd shouts back.

Lance squirms in his seat.

The Officiator, unaware that he is in the presence of a Balmeran, continues with glee. “Watch as the barbaric Balmerans are rendered helpless before the might of the Galran Empire!”

The side doors Lance had walked through on his tour burst open, and out gallop several dozen or so more gladiators on horseback. The riders vastly outnumber the men on foot, and Lance can’t help the clench in his chest at those odds.

The officiator continues with pomp and circumstance, “The Empire gave them every chance to surrender, but the bloodthirsty Balmerans stood their ground! So the Empire had no choice but to  _ attack! _ ”

At their cue, the riders charge at the infantry gladiators, and the game is on. 

“Reenactments are my favorite part of the Games,” Emperor Lotor smiles, popping a few grapes into his mouth and leaning forward on his chair to get a better view. “Don’t you love history?”

The battle happening below is a brutal one. There is so much going on at once, it’s impossible to know where to look. Already, horses are screaming as their legs are swept out from under them with vicious swipes of a sword. Riders go tumbling to the dirt, rising back to their feet with enraged war cries. For every rider the “Balmerans” kill, two more rise to take his place. The hard-packed sand, originally a golden flax color, turns red instantly.

The “Balmerans,” originally six in number, are down to four. Lance’s eyes sweep from head to head, sighing in relief when he realizes the Red Lion is still standing. He’s not sure why he’s so invested in the Red Lion’s life, seeing as he had only met the man once (well, once and a half if you count the eye contact on the road), but he finds himself silently cheering for him anyway. 

The Red Lion moves with a powerful grace of a pouncing lion, worthy of his moniker. Muscle ripples beneath sweat-slick skin as he thrusts his sword into the stomach of an attacker, yanking it out in a spray of blood in time to pivot on his heel and block an attack from behind. Another “Balmeran” falls to an Imperial Soldier’s sword right in front of him, and the Red Lion wastes no time launching himself across the sea of bodies beneath him to introduce the sharp end of his weapon to the soldier.

Another soldier tries to sneak up on him from behind, gripping an axe that Lance would hate to be on the receiving end of. “Behind you!” he shouts reflexively, drawing the curious gaze of Emperor Lotor, but ignoring him in favor of watching with wide eyes as the Red Lion whips around, raising his shield and barely managing to block the heavy strike. He buries his sword in the soldier’s gut, kicking the body off and already searching for his next opponent. Black hair whips in a wide arc, sticking to his forehead, and Lance simply cannot tear his eyes away.

“They call this sport?” Pidge murmurs next to him, fists clenched in her lap and eyes wide as if she, too, cannot look away despite how much she might want to.

“I have a stomachache,” Hunk says, his face turned away. Kinkade silently rubs his back, a gesture that seems to be well received.

A commotion rises from the crowd. Lance looks back at the arena just in time to see another “Balmeran” crumple to the ground, leaving the Red Lion and one other gladiator as the only remaining members of their team. They press themselves back to back, breathing heavily and murmuring words to each other that are lost among the din of hoofbeats and screaming crowds.

There are still a dozen riders left, two on horseback. One seems to be throwing jeers, making rude gestures and feeding off the energy of the crowd. Lance recognizes him as the man who had picked a fight with the Red Lion while Lance had been visiting the training grounds. Red Lion shouts something that sounds like  _ “I’m gonna make you suck your own cock!” _ back. Lance swallows.

There are still a few stray horses milling about the arena, cantering in circles with stirrups clicking at their sides as they try looking for an escape from all the commotion. One of them wanders close enough to the center for the Red Lion to make a split second decision. He whispers something to the other gladiator before dropping his shield and subsequent extra weight to make a break for the horse, dodging arrows and spears with the agility of a prancing antelope.

He pulls himself onto the horse, somehow managing not to tangle himself in the chain that still connects him to the rock in the center of the arena. The crowd roars again in encouragement as Red Lion kicks the horse into a gallop, gathering his ankle chain in his free hand. Lance sees the gladiator’s plan moments before it happens: pulled taunt, and the horse running the perimeter of the arena, the chain whips soldiers across the faces and chests, sending them crashing to the ground. Not enough to kill them, but hard enough to have them not getting back up again for a while. Whichever soldiers manage to duck the chain don’t have as much luck dodging the sword.

The two remaining gladiators on horseback take off after the Red Lion, waving their swords and spears. One of them gets dangerously close to lopping off Red Lion’s head, but he ducks just in time. He sacrifices his blade to take out the soldier, losing the sword as it gets stuck in the body that topples off the side of the horse. Now there is one rider, and four soldiers versus a defenseless Red Lion and a second team member that has seemingly vanished from the arena. Lance’s heart pounds in its chest, his entire body shaking from the second hand adrenaline. He’s only felt this kind of rush during the annual archery competition in Altea, which he wins each year in a landslide but it doesn’t negate his nerves.

The four soldiers on foot grab at the Red Lion’s chain and  _ yank,  _ pulling the gladiator from the galloping horse. He hits the ground with a pained grunt, the entire crowd  _ ooo _ -ing in sympathy. He’s lucky he didn’t break something, Lance thinks, or get tangled in a stirrup to be dragged behind the horse and trampled to death.

A soldier raises an axe to go for the kill, taking advantage of the gladiator still gathering his bearings beneath him. Lance only realizes he’s half risen out of his seat when a sharp twang pierces the air, and the soldier drops, an arrow sticking out of his back. Lance follows the trajectory, and sees the second gladiator near the top of the rocky structure, a stolen bow and quiver in his hands.

The Red Lion barely manages to roll out of the way to avoid the falling body and weapon, scrambling to his feet. He and his teammate exchange nods, and the other man appears to scan the arena for another target.

The Red Lion whips his head from side to side as he looks for a weapon. There’s a sword still clutched in a dead soldier’s hands, of much higher quality than the one he was wielding before. The three remaining soldiers on foot see it too. The pregnant pause that passes between them only lasts a second before the gladiator makes a break for it.

He wraps his hand around the hilt and slashes upward, striking an approaching soldier across the chest and getting blood splatter across his face and arm. Lance winces as a phantom pain tingles across his skin, and rubs his hand against his own chest, feeling his pounding heart beneath his ribs to remind himself that he’s not in any danger.

In no time the remaining foot soldiers are down, most with arrows sticking out of their bodies courtesy of the archer. Lance can tell from the angle that the arrows hit that the archer is not used to working with such a weapon, but Lance is impressed all the same.

Emperor Lotor is frowning slightly, leaned back in his throne and whispering to the Officiator in a low voice.  _ “Forgive me if my memory is not as good as it once was, but I do recall this event happening… quite differently.” _

Lance chances another glance at Hunk. He still looks sick, Kinkade still rubs his hand up and down his back, but something in his expression seems smug, like the “Balmerans” won’t go down without a fight.

It’s just the final rider and the Red Lion now. The archer raises his bow, but the Red Lion holds up a hand, and the other relaxes. This fight is personal it seems. The rider dismounts, swinging his sword in wide arcs to rile up the crowd. Red Lion doesn’t seem fazed, tightening his grip on his own weapon, flexing his other hand as if itching for a shield.

The soldier wastes no time going on the offensive, forcing Red Lion fall back into a defensive position, struggling to find an opening to turn the tables. Lance recalls the training exercise the previous day, and now that it’s a true fight to the death, neither gladiator is holding back.

Lance involuntarily flinches every time their swords meet, the clashes of metal on metal ringing in his ears. The soldier pushes Red Lion back towards the center of the arena, where the big rocky structure is surrounded by bodies. On one hand, a plentiful supply of shields and other weapons. On the other, treacherous footing for whoever is on the defense.

Red Lion seems to realize this too, and ducks out of the way of the sword, tuck-and-rolling behind the soldier and aiming a strike at the man’s back. It hits, but it screeches against the metal armor and only works to trip up the soldier. 

Back and forth they go, Lance nearly biting a hole through his lip.

First blood goes to the soldier, who manages to draw a wicked gash into Red Lion’s thigh. The gladiator goes down to one knee with a cry, leaning on the pommel of his sword to catch his breath. The solider paces in a circle, arms wide as he soaks in the cheering of the crowd.

Red Lion struggles to stand up. His right leg, the outside of it covered in streaming rivulets of blood, seems barely able to support his weight. The soldier clocks this, and by staying to his right, Red Lion is forced once again on the defense, leaving his left, the side that had taken a beating the previous day, wide open for a feint attack.

Lance sees the feint, and can’t even open his mouth in time before the solder kicks Red Lion right in his bruise. Red Lion shouts in pain, too distracted to block the gash that slices through his armor, and he goes down once again with another pained cry. The crowd loves it, stomping their feet in anticipation of what’s to come.

The soldier goes in for the killing blow. Lance winces, turning his face away, wishing there was something, anything, that he could do to stop this...

“Argh!”

That voice was definitely not Red Lion’s. Looking back, the soldier has a brand new arrow sticking out of his shoulder, courtesy of the second gladiator everyone seems to have forgotten about. The man had snuck around the rocky structure, bow still raised and new arrow notched in place.

The soldier snarls, leaving the wounded Red Lion in favor of the new opponent. With his injured shoulder however, he cannot raise his sword as easily as he’d like, and the second gladiator has the advantage of distance. It’s not long before the soldier is face down in the dust, a few more arrows sticking out of the chinks of his armor and putting him out of commission. Whether he is dead or not, Lance doesn’t know.

The crowd is going insane, stomping their feet and roaring with excitement. Lance breathes a heavy sigh of relief, slowly relaxing his fingers one by one from where they grip the armrest of his chair with a white-knuckled intensity. A glance from the corner of his eye shows Emperor Lotor with his mouth curled in a frown, reclined back in his throne with a displeased atmosphere.

Red Lion swallows heavily, nodding his thanks at the second gladiator, who gives a low smirk back as he lowers the bow and holds out a hand to help Red Lion back to his feet.

Lance isn’t sure what is supposed to happen now. Technically there should only be one winner, but Red Lion and his ally were on the same side of the reenactment, so does that mean they both win or do they have to kill each other now? Lance looks over at Lotor, who might turn purple if he doesn’t release that breath soon. Pidge is clenching the armrests of her chair in a vice-like grip, face pale.

Lotor leans to the side and whispers something in the Officiator’s ear. The Officiator looks terrified, the event he had designed specifically to please the Emperor haven gone horribly wrong. At Lotor’s word, the man scrambles to his feet, thrusting out a closed fist into the air.

Thumbs up, or thumbs down. Something tightens in Lance’s chest.

The crowd is chanting,  _ “Live! Live! Live!”  _

Red Lion and the archer are looking up at the officiator’s box. The archer is looking slightly nervous as he watches that fist. Red Lion’s gaze, burning with defiance at that fist as if daring it to condemn him. Though, for what feels like eternity but only lasts a brief moment, that gaze locks onto Lance’s, the fire dimming, almost looking contemplative like a candle flickering in the library for a late night study, a candle that’s about to be snuffed out by the storm brewing outside.

Lance is not typically an impulsive person. On his best days he’s analytical and is never without a plan. But now, as Lance stands from his chair and thrusts a thumbs up into the air to the delight of the crowd and anger of Emperor Lotor, he thinks that for once, being impulsive is okay if it saves the lives of two men.

Red Lion’s eyes are impossibly wide, barely resisting as guards run forward and drag him out of the arena. Lance keeps their eyes locked for as long as he can, until the Red Lion disappears back into the underground, the archer following right after. Only after he can see them no longer does he lower his thumb and spin on his heel to face the music.

If Pidge is a lively jig, and Allura is a sweet melody, Emperor Lotor is a crashing symphony, the notes rising in intensity as he stands from his throne, jaw firmly clenched. Lance throws his shoulders back and raises his chin, doing his best to seem unaffected even if his knees shake slightly.

“I think we are due for an intermission,” the Emperor says, an order. “Resume the games in thirty dobashes.”

Lotor sweeps from the viewers box as the Officiator makes the announcement. When he finishes, Lance lays a hand on his shoulder, in part for support for his shaking knees but also as a passive reminder of his rank. “If you would be so kind,” he says with a smile to the fidgeting Officiator, “please take me to Slavemaster Thace.”


	8. inject your advice to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to look at how long it's been since I updated but uh, yeah! Here it is! The post-games chapter! I hope it's worth the wait aha. It's a little shorter than the other chapters but I guess something is better than nothing.
> 
> Un-beta'd, and it's been a while so if there are any inconsistencies between this and previous chapters please let me know haha
> 
> Chapter title from Black Sea by Natasha Blume

Keith burns.

From the cuts that litter his body, burning as the healers pour their salves into them. From the small metal razors that scrape the sweat and dirt from his skin, burning against his oversensitive nerves. From the blood that hasn’t leaked from his wounds making its way to color his face, burning in wounded pride.

Keith burns, he burns, _burns._

His wounds are wrapped, his body washed, and then he is alone in the shit excuse for an infirmary, legs chained to the bed as if he had the energy to try and escape. He can still hear the distant roars of the crowd as the more advanced single combat matches begin above him, the room shaking sometimes as onlookers stomp their feet in anticipation.

Keith’s head hurts.

He closes his eyes, raising his heavy arms to rub his hands down his face as if simply by hiding behind his hands he will vanish from the world.

He hasn’t lost a match in a long, long time, and conflicting emotions duel each other in his chest until he feels like he’s going to burst. At its core, humiliation and embarrassment at having to be saved by the thumb, not even counting the fact it was the _Altean’s_ thumb that spared his life. He could see how much the Officiator wanted to see him, the representation of “Balmera,” die and secure the victory of the Empiric soldiers. Die to please the Emperor, when the reenactment hadn’t gone quite they way he had planned.

Part of him wants to die, to finally be free of this ruthless kill-or-be-killed life he was forced into, to be free of the nightmares that plague him until he wakes with the scent of burning flesh in his nose and the one-eyed man’s laugh ringing in his ears.

But then, he also wants to live, if only as a great _fuck you_ to the gods who willed him here, to the one-eyed man who surely didn’t expect him to live as long as he has. To be there for Shiro, who he has already lost once. To earn his freedom and track down and avenge his father and village.

The conflicting emotions duke it out in his chest, his mind at war with itself for an amount of time Keith can’t place. It can’t have been too long after he was left alone, however, because soon enough there’s a commotion outside of the infirmary door. He turns his head, a scowl settling deep onto his face in the hope that whomever it is causing that ruckus will see he does not want to be disturbed, and leave him to sleep away the aches in his muscles.

The door opens, and Slavemaster Thace sweeps into the room, followed closely after by--

“What are _you_ doing here?”

The Altean sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thank you for saving my life, Your Grace,” he says in a bad imitation of Keith. “I’m oh so thankful to be alive, I’m forever in your debt. Oh please, that won’t be necessary,” he switches to his normal voice, waving his arms in an over-dramatization of his generosity. “It was the least I could do, you owe me nothing.”

Keith blinks. “That sounded nothing like me.”

“It was a perfect imitation, what are you talking about.”

“Red Lion,” Slavemaster Thace interrupts, catching Keith’s attention. “His Grace Lord Lance wished to speak with you. Will you accept his request?”

Keith flicks his gaze back to Lance, whose eyes are fixed on the bandaged wound on his thigh with an unreadable expression. “Would he leave if I said no?”

“No,” Lance says, locking eyes with him. “No, he would not.”

Keith closes his eyes, his body sinking further into the rough straw cot with a heavy sigh. “Very well.”

“If you wouldn’t mind leaving us,” Lance says to Slavemaster Thace.

“With all due respect, I cannot allow a significant figure such as yourself to be alone in a room with a barbarian such as this.”

“The man can barely lift his head, I think I am in no danger at all,” Lance points out, and Keith can’t help the breath of a chuckle that escapes his heavy chest. “If it would make you feel any better, I’ll have my personal guard stand just by the door in the event where there is any trouble.”

Slavemaster Thace purses his lips a bit but acquiesces, backing out the room and gesturing so that the Altean’s guard, a tall, dark-skinned man with an intricate sword at his hip may enter. The guard closes the door and stands in front of it, leaving Lance and Keith in relative solitude.

Lance pulls up a bench and sits himself down on it. “Are you alright?”

“Why did you do that?”

Lance blinks. “I don’t follow.”

Keith’s fist clenches a handful of straw, his muscles, still exhausted and battered, trembling with the effort. “Why would you save me.” _Thank you for saving me,_ says his mind _._

“A thank you would be nice,” Lance huffs. Keith levels another glare at him, and he continues with a sigh. “Call it cultural differences, but I couldn’t just sit there and watch another man die.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I think I’d like to.”

And isn’t that just the cherry on top. The part of him that is grateful to be alive is quelled by the flare of anger and frustration that ignites in his chest. He turns his face away. “What is there to know.”

“All I know is that you’ve been doing this your whole life,” Lance says, his tone equally frustrated with Keith’s lack of reciprocation. “And it’s a vile practice that I’d like to work toward putting an end to.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t need your false sympathy.”

“I never said you were--”

“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you?” Keith bites back a growl. “Poor Keith, doomed to the life of a gladiator and probably won’t live to see his thirtieth year, save his life and maybe he’ll repay me with a favor or crawl into my bed.”

“That’s not how I see it at all!” Lance insists, leaning forward in his chair as if it will somehow get his point across better.

“Is it?” Keith scoffs. “All you nobles are the same; won’t do anything unless they get something out of it. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

“Why won’t you just trust me when I say that I have no ulterior motive?”

“What does it matter if I trust you or not,” Keith snaps. “It doesn’t change the truth."

“I’m not sure how it works in the Empire,” Lance snaps back. “But in Altea, things are different. We don’t save lives because we expect something in return, we do it because it’s _the right thing to do._ Trust me when I tell you that the only motivation I had to save your life is because I couldn’t stand by a moment longer and watch men die.”

Keith can hear the sincerity in Lance’s voice, a conviction that he hasn’t heard in a long time. He releases a heavy breath, and all of his anger and frustration exits his body, leaving his muscles sore as they sink further into the cot. The burning fades into warm pulse beneath his skin.

Keith angles his face away, suddenly unable to look the Altean in the eye. The adrenaline has worn off, and now that he isn’t in the heat of battle - physical or verbal - he hears it, the heartbeat in his ears. Pumping. Alive.

“Thank you,” Keith mumbles. “For saving my life.”

Lance leans back with a relieved sigh, and Keith somehow knows he’s smiling. “You’re welcome, Red Lion _.”_

Keith breaths out heavily again. “Keith.”

“What?”

With a heavy grunt, Keith gathers up his energy and pushes himself into a sitting position. Lance’s hands reach out, fingers brushing against his bare skin occasionally as if trying to figure out if he needs assistance (which he does not, thank you very much).

“Red Lion is my gladiator name,” Keith continues, adjusting until he leans back against the cool stone headboard of the cot. “My real name is Keith.”

“Keith,” Lance whispers, and a shudder runs down Keith’s spine. The first person he’s told his true name to besides Shiro, a feat which had taken at least a year of trust-building, saying his name with a gentle wonder.

“Now I don’t have to keep calling you _Red Lion_ in my head, that is such a mouthful,” Lance laughs, and Keith allows himself a smile.

“My first Slavemaster gave that name to me,” he says. “Said I bloody enemies like a lion bloodies its dinner.”

“More like red because your face is as bright as a tomato!”

Keith ducks his head, hiding behind his hair, which only makes Lance laugh more.

“I like you,” Lance decides once he catches his breath. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

What an odd thing to tell someone. Keith comes out from hiding beneath his bangs,observing the Altean’s grinning face with a passive interest. His first impression of the man had been of a meddling nobleman, and while that may still hold true, Keith is beginning to see that the true nature of the man at his bedside is perhaps not all that it seems.

A knock sounds on the infirmary door, and Slavemaster Thace renters the room. “Your Grace,” he says with a shallow nod of the head. “The Emperor requests your presence.”

The grin fades from Lance’s face. Though perhaps ‘fade’ is not the right word. The smile remains, but Keith has become an expert at detecting the slightest hint of movement, a flick of the eyes or a shift of the weight. He sees the pinch of Lance’s eyebrows, the slight tensing of his jaw, and a sudden pang flares in Keith’s chest, and it takes him until Lance is already out of the room for him to identify it.

Worry.

* * *

Keith is released from the infirmary many hours later, once he can sit up and swallow food on his own. His wounds were deemed repairable enough to heal without too much tending, since the workers who barely qualified as physicians had their hands full with healing the more gravely injured. He passes James on his way out, the man still unconscious on his cot. His torso is completely wrapped in bandages spotted in red, and Keith allows himself a quiet moment of victory in the shape of a smirk before being escorted back to the barracks with orders not to move around too much.

The games are long since over when Keith is released, slaves running to and fro as they lug away buckets of dark sand and send back fresh replacements. It’s a scene Keith is familiar with, though the post-games work in Slavan is on a much smaller scale compared to Daibazaal. The communal areas are less crowded than they were when Keith arrived, but Keith couldn’t tell you who was missing, only that some of the least experienced gladiators he had noticed on his first day are not-so-mysteriously absent. The gladiators that remain stare and whisper as he passes.

_He’s favored by the Altean Ambassador,_ Keith pretends not to hear.

_He defied the Emperor by deviating from history,_ others mumbled. _He won’t last to the next games._

Shiro isn’t in their shared cell when he returns, but Rolo is. He is leaned up against the wall their two rooms share, face turned toward the barred opening Rolo had introduced himself through the first day.

“Glad to see you’re doing alright,” he says casually.

Keith slumps into his cot with a pained grunt. “Thanks to you.” He’s on a roll today with thanking people, and though he has built a reputation as being cold and unfeeling, he’s not actually cruel. “I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Nah, I’m sure you would have pulled through somehow.”

“James had it out for me. He wouldn’t have let me leave that arena alive.” Keith turns so that he can see Rolo through the opening. “So. Thank you.”

Rolo meets his gaze with a lazy grin. “No problem, Reddie.”

Keith makes another decision. “Keith.”

Rolo looks confused. “Who’s that?”

Keith holds out his hand through the bars with a small grin of his own. “My name. It’s Keith.”

Rolo blinks, no doubt remembering Keith’s refusal to give his name the first time they met. Then his mouth stretches wider, and they join hands through the bars in a soft handshake. “Rolo. Nice to meet you, Keith.”

How far Keith has come in only two days. And all it took was almost dying and a mouthy Altean to undo almost fifteen years of wall-building and aloofness. That’s not to say Keith is going to go shout his name from the top of the coliseum, but, he thinks as he lays back on his cot, careful not to disturb his bandages, that perhaps Shiro had a point when he ordered Keith to open up to more people.

Keith and Rolo chat amicably to pass the time until meal time and curfew, discussing past experiences in battle and their toughest victory. It moves to more mundane things, like food preferences or favorite animals (“Dogs,” Keith affirms, remembering the wolf pup his father let him keep to try and teach him responsibility. The dog’s mother had come back a week later, however, and Keith was sad to see his companion go). It’s likely one of the longest conversations Keith has ever had with someone who isn’t Shiro or his father and, perhaps now, the Altean Lance.

Shiro returns to their cell some time in the early evening hours. His chest is wrapped in cloth stained red in places. “It looks worse than it is,” he laughs when Keith frets, and changes the subject to what had happened after Keith was taken to the infirmary.

“Emperor Lotor resumed the games, but the Altean ambassador wasn’t there to watch. I assumed he went back to the palace. Keith, what… what happened out there?”

Keith can’t meet Shiro’s eyes. “He saved my life,” he says. “James had me, Rolo put him down but we were supposed to lose. It’s not a reenactment if the losing side doesn’t actually lose. So the Emperor was going to execute us but the Atlean he…” Keith swallows, remembering the nervous beat of his heart as he realized what he had done, the rush of calm as he accepted that he was about to die, the jerk of surprise when he saw not a pale thumbs down but an almond thumbs up.

“He stopped the execution. He saved my life, and now I owe him.”

“He stopped it without asking for the Emperor’s permission,” Shiro hums, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “I doubt that will go well.”

Lance definitely looked worried when Slavemaster Thace had called him away. Keith has never met Emperor Lotor in person, but he imagines that the son of the man who ordered the massacre of his people can’t be too different than his father. He can’t kill Lance for defying him and saving Keith’s life, not unless he wants to start a war with Altea, but that doesn’t ease the discomfort in Keith’s stomach.

Keith doesn’t know the reason as to why the nobles are gathered here, but he imagines that this incident will not make it any easier on Lance. A part of Keith feels guilty, even if he really has nothing to feel guilty for. He didn’t _ask_ Lance to save his life, but his mere existence is now the catalyst for international tensions.

All he wanted was to fight, and to kill the man who killed his father, even if it meant killing himself in the process. Now he owes a man a debt, a very powerful man, and possibly built himself an impossible bulwark that he must first pass over before he can continue his search for the one eyed man.

The guards call light’s out, and the barracks are plunged into darkness as torches are extinguished. Keith turns over on his cot, wincing as he disturbs his wounds. He pillows his head in the crook of his elbow and counts the cracks on the wall. The wall of his cell, or the wall around his heart?

He hasn’t figure that out yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone who's stuck around! I really appreciate it ^^ I'm still on twitter as @shallweklance, so follow me for klance and other fandom content

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter @shallweklance for updates and klance-y goodness


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